


Matched

by Harrishawksuperiour



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Anal, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bad Sex, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Han Solo, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Blood, Blood Addiction, Blood As Lube, Blood Kink, Blood Pacts, Blood and Gore, Blood and Torture, Bloodlust, Bloodplay, Bottom Kylo Ren, Come as Lube, Consensual Infidelity, Corpse Desecration, Cruelty, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Debauchery, Decadence, Decapitation, Dirty Talk, Dismemberment, Doggy Style, Engagement, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Face-Fucking, Finger Sucking, Fingerfucking, Fucked Up, Fucking, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hair-pulling, Hux is Not Nice, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kylo Ren Has Issues, Lesbian Rey (Star Wars), M/M, Marriage Proposal, Menstrual Sex, Menstruation Kink, Missionary Position, Multi, Multiple Partners, Murder, Murder Kink, Murderers, Mutual Masturbation, Necrophilia, Online Dating, Oral Sex, Organs, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possessive Hux, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reader-Insert, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Roughness, Serial Killers, Sex, Sex Addiction, Sex Tapes, Sex Toys, Sexual Content, Sexual Violence, Shameless Smut, Smuggler Han Solo, Smut, Spitroasting, Strangers to Lovers, Strangulation, Sugar Daddy, Sugar Daddy Armitage Hux, Surgeons, Surgery, Threesome, Threesome - F/F/M, Threesome - F/M/M, Top Kylo Ren, Torture, Unsafe Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2018-08-18 05:46:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8151184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harrishawksuperiour/pseuds/Harrishawksuperiour
Summary: Swiping right and swiping left are an indication of liking and disliking. Perhaps they have a sense of humour similar to yours or like the same films or maybe they're just good looking; swipe right. Boozy? Poor dress sense? Stuck up? Swipe left, no one will know. But do you really know who they are when someone strikes up the all-important chat? How do you know what the screen of your phone (and theirs) is hiding? Maybe it's nothing and they're as genuine as they seem and you'll both live happily ever after! Or maybe.... Maybe swiping right and swiping left are the difference between life and death. But you know all about that, don't you?





	1. The Price of Vanity

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this came out of nowhere and I HAD to write it. It's my first reader insert fic so please be kind and do leave your feedback! I understand this isn't to everyone's taste but it might appeal to a certain niche. I don't know if it's ever been done before but I like pushing the boundaries! Please enjoy; kudos and comments are always vastly appreciated. If anyone has any suggestions that they would like to see manifested in this monstrosity, do feel free to contact me! xxx 
> 
> More relationships, tags and characters will be added as it progresses. The reader is NOT the character in the first chapter. 
> 
> As always, Domhnall, I'm so sorry. xxx
> 
> The usual warning applies; this is dark, gory and general-ly (see what I did there? ;) ) vile so if that's not to your taste, I would suggest turning back now. 
> 
> And yes, I joined Tinder purely out of research. :D

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The seemingly gentlemanly Armitage Hux uses his Tinder profile as a lure to trap unwitting golddiggers to wine and dine them in an extravagant evening but when the bedroom door is shut, the facade is overhauled into a nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reader will be introduced in the second chapter but I wanted to set up Hux first and give you a taste of what this is actually going to be.

The little jingle, like the one one would associate a video game character jumping to, twinkled in the nearly empty townhouse. From the bathroom with the door ajar, it tweaked his ear and he already knew what it was but carried on washing his hands without overly reacting to it. _Another one._ Which shallow, greedy, vain individual would it be today? He cast his mind back on the prospective matches from that day, some he could remember clearly and others just barely. He’d remember snippets like an unusual name, a strange profile picture or a particularly sweet dog or cat; he always had a soft spot for cats. He had swiped right on a blonde three kilometres away; a confident, sassy looking woman of thirty with her lips puckered at the camera on what appeared to be a hen night. _“Yes, you need to be purged, darling, look at you.”_ He inspected the following photos and from there, he deducted she was perfect. Posing with super cars, bold selfies in the mirror of an upmarket boutique; she was ideal, the male population would thank him for it.

 

Even her tagline screamed it: **“I like my men how I like my chocolate: rich and dark! Hahahaha!!”** Subsequent by several irritating emojis of tiaras, diamonds, kissy faces, pound signs and whatever other pictures a textbook golddigger would find appropriate to put on her Tinder profile.

 

 _“I’m not dark, darling.”_ He thought in response as a menacing smirk pulled at the corner of those pallid lips. _“But I **am** rich. I’ll look after you.” _ He wasn’t the most attractive individual, he could admit that. He wasn’t conventionally handsome and out of habit, he always looked at his own profile to remind himself of how superficial humans could be. Here was he, an average looking man in his mid-thirties with a predictable profile (looking for relationship, someone to share my life with, social drinker, smoker, the usual). However, the hook for his desired type lay in his photos and in the single line beneath his profile picture: **Head Surgeon at St. Snoke Memorial Hospital.** An incredible post for a man of his age and it wasn’t a lie but some of the more _currency hungry_ found it difficult to believe their luck that one of the finest surgeons in the country had been reduced to Tinder. Not reduced though, not at all even if the pale, thin frame and flaming head did seem to be somewhat repellent to the female species.

 

His photos only amplified his implied (and very real) wealth. While his looks didn’t amount to much, Armitage dressed well and only in the best, obvious to those who knew what to look for and so he chose a picture of himself in an exceptional Armani tuxedo at an awards gala with a glass of champagne he couldn’t even begin to value. That usually grabbed their attention. If that wasn’t enough, to curiously swipe on that photo would reveal a more casual photo with his prized thoroughbred Ashera, Millicent. The next on a beach in Hawaii though he only posed for it for the purpose of the picture; Hux didn’t care for the sun and the speckling of rash on his glowing white chest should have been an indication of that.

 

Finally retrieving his phone from the living room coffee table: _New Match!_ The notification sang as he keyed the code to the homescreen and tapped the icon to open the app to find his picture and the blonde hen night girl vibrating next to each other. _It’s a Match! You and Jessika have liked each other!_ He felt the usual stab of satisfaction when a particular favourite had fallen into the trap. Despite both swiping right, there was often a reluctance to initiate contact by both parties, purely out of nerves or fear of trolling. Hux, however…. Hux was a predator. In knowing what he wanted (and it wasn’t a golddigger, he would never find what he wanted and he had accepted that), he selected the new match and typed a charming introductory message with no hesitation whatsoever and it went from there.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Meet me at the Savoy at 7.30pm. See you then, beautiful. Xxx**

What better way to snag a golddigger than to invite her to one of the most expensive, luxurious and exclusive restaurants in the city? And she didn’t disappoint. She was everything he expected. Not wanted, expected. The giggly flirtations with the shifting of heavily pencilled and scrutinizing eyes to his phone, his watch and wallet were all commonplace among his choices, this one was no different though she seemed to get under his skin faster than the others did. Terribly irritating and all as he found her, it was ingrained into him to treat her like a lady, even if she didn’t really act like one. The trapping began with a kiss to her hand outside and intensified when the menus were placed down in front of them.

 

Drinks were first and champagne was a must. She sampled it like a pro and declared the Bollinger Vieilles Vignes Francaises of 2005 for £1,100 a bottle would do; it went without saying that he was paying for their evening together and why wouldn’t he make her last one memorable? Not that she’d be remembering it but he would. He smiled through it and reminded himself that this was payment for his sport. She certainly knew how to get her values worth when she selected the Beluga Royal Caviar for a simple starter and not the £150 for 30grams, heavens no. She would entertain nothing less than the 50g for £250; had she dined here before? The conversation was _almost_ polite and she tended to focus on his job with the banal “It must be interesting!”, “That’s a lot of responsibility!”, “Oh gosh, I couldn’t do that!” or “You must be _so_ intelligent!”.

 

Plates cleared away to make room for their main, she naturally started to edge into his Tinder profile, asking about the holidays, the cat, the suits; his lavish lifestyle. All the while, the pound signs in her eyes were more than prominent. Two Chateaubriand steaks (one medium well done, the other rare) at £72 each found their way to the table where they were enjoyed in moderate silence; hers had been slathered with peppercorn sauce, his with marrowbone. He watched her eat between cutting his own mouthfuls; watched her savour every chew with soft sighs and lowered, mascaraed lashes. _“I won’t even need to drug you.”_ For an ordinary human being to have such a disturbing thought might have been alarming to them but not Hux. No, this was run of the mill. He took another sip of the overpriced champagne, finding it not quite to his taste but he’d be damned if he didn’t drink it. The semi-quiet at the table allowed him to think of what he’d need, what he had to hand at home and how he would get her there. He disregarded the last part; she’d go willingly, like a lamb to the slaughter.

 

Chocolate and hazelnut Opera cake was not enough for £9 for a meagre slice. She had to have the suggested accompanying wine for an extra £9 per glass while he opted for the passion fruit soufflé with orange ice-cream for £10.50. When the bill arrived and the time came to pay, he thanked the waiter (whom he knew by name) to ignore the overly-interested stare from across the table. The bill had come to some exorbitant sum of over £1,500; most of which she was responsible for. Would it have been cheaper to get a prostitute? Maybe but the _thrill_ wasn’t the same if a woman _expected_ danger. The pristine credit card was swept away and his wallet was shut before she could get a closer look inside but she was already trailing the side of her foot up and down his leg. _Who needed a prostitute?_

 

 

* * *

 

 

The taxi was as close as they’d gotten. Wrapped around each other, tongues warring and hands wondering; the driver did his best to ignore it. His fingers grazed the purposely thin material of her panties that were easily accessible beneath the little black dress (that he suspected _did not_ come from Primark), eliciting a breathy groan and a twitch of her newly exposed cunt to his fingers. As he expected, the tart didn’t shy away; rather, she opened her legs wider to let two fingers stretch her. It seemed the usual trick of cabbies taking the longer way around didn’t apply tonight as the driver was eager to get the over-enthusiastic lovers out of his car before they left a smell in the backseat. While Hux paid (again), Jessika surveyed the neighbourhood with awe as if all her birthdays had come at once but the poor golddigger was yet to see that she would not be having another birthday.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The clothes on the floor more than likely came to thousands altogether as if the carpet didn’t match whatever sum they collected. The mattress sagged in different places as the two writhing bodies shifted and churned into satisfying poses of pleasure with the obscenest noises to accompany them. He was correct in his sentiments; he didn’t need to drug her nor did she resist or protest when he entered her without a condom, not that he had any intention of bowing to such petty objections whether she did or not. He assumed it would be sensible for a golddigger to be pro-choice or perhaps she was on the pill but he assumed she would have informed him for the sheer eroticism of it.

 

Pinned to the bed, she relinquished control to him but it wouldn’t have been too difficult for him to take it regardless; he was far bigger than her. The thrusts were brutal, pelvis crashing savagely with primitive grunts of effort paired with more submissive whines from beneath. Faster and faster, harder and harder with a strength and force it didn't look like he possessed; Hux's bony hips pummeled mercilessly into Jessika's slightly meatier ones, relishing the sensation of raw, aggressive fucking.

 

**_"Ahh.... Ahh.... Fuck.... Fuck.... FUCK YES!!! Oh God.... Right there.... Right there.... YES!!!"_ **

_"That's it, tramp."_ The thought was automatic and unregulated without disrupting the flow of his brutal movements in response to the whorish ministrations and the bounce of breasts that Hux could categorically state, as a surgeon, were not real. _"Take it, you fucking bitch. You knew what the champagne would cost you."_

_"Let me try something."_ The sinister purr in her ear was far more amicable than the snarls she was now more acquainted with though the consent was an illusion. He withdrew to a whimper of both relief and disappointment while his knees found his own weight and the sheets permitted a shuffle towards hers until his cock met her mouth. She took him without complaint while he rooted in the bedside drawer, the exercise was not born of pleasure; it was simply to keep her quiet while his mind started to calculate. Her mouth milked him or tried to, he wasn’t giving her that just yet but the benign suckling encouraged movement in his lower quarters once more and a slight growl as he retrieved what he had been looking for. The propulsion of his loins continued while a white, silk scarf snaked around Jessika’s wrists with professionally careful hands and bound them tight while her head still glided ever so respectfully, the warm wet enveloping him in the most sacred way possible. The restriction didn’t seem to bother her; judging by the haughty (if muffled) giggle the upgrade in bedroom spice was welcomed and somehow he doubted she was a stranger to it.

 

Despite the sweet tickle, he ejected his shaft and resumed his previous position but slower and more careful than before. When he leaned his face close to hers, Jessika poised and readied herself for another heavy session of invasive kissing but instead found him watching her facial expression and….. _tightness._

 

_“What…. What’re you doing?”_

_“Ssshhhh….. You’ll like it.”_

_“Ar….Armitage? What’re yoggggguuuuuhhhh…..”_ The curtailment on her hands left her helpless though she did try to rub them together as if one might slip from the silk but to his sick delight, panic had taken over. In a new wave of arousal, his hips kicked back into action with another bout of hostile thrusts; fuelled by the thrashing beneath him and the beautiful shade of reddish-purple her face was beginning to turn from the slow tightening of the scarf. With an end looped around each fist and a shrinking amount of material on her throat, Hux continued to pull slowly until Jessika’s alarm was reduced to gasping wheezes and a weakening of her resistance. He counted the seconds; _five, six, seven…._ But his fucking into the almost unconscious woman was still relentless. However, he refused to allow himself release until he was sure Jessika was well and truly dead.

 

 _“Now, now, Jessika.”_ The scolding taunt came from the weak thumping of her bound hands against his chest; they were more of an irritation or an inconvenience than a problem. _“Be a good girl and it’ll be over soon. Think about the wonderful evening we had.”_ His breath was beginning to shorten but in a very different way to hers; they were both close but to very different things. The adrenaline surged through his system with testosterone as he pulled the scarf to such a degree that her neck became scarlet and his knuckles a delectable shade of ivory. Her noises and struggles became frailer, the spark started to die in her eyes and her eyelids started to flicker; all the while, Hux’s maintained his violent rammings that caused the bed to creak.

 

In his mind, he combed through everything her body was being subjected to. He revelled in the idea of her trachea being crushed, the blood vessels bursting and the hindered flow of oxygen to her brain that, when her head lulled to the side, seemed to have cut off. Unconscious but not dead, his genital nudges slowed but didn’t cease in a bid to monitor her breathing and pulse. Inhales barely there and forced; he kept his hold but refused to tighten it. She wouldn’t be waking up again and the mere concept of it sent him spiralling into overdrive once more while the craving for an orgasm clawed at him. The mattress protested under the utter harassment, the headboard slammed repeatedly to the wall and his own carnal howls became central to the debauched scene; even more so (if it were possible) when Jessika’s body finally went limp. His ear tilted to her mouth but felt no tickle, even with the heaves of his own pants.

 

 _“Thank you for a memorable night, Jessika.”_ The last demanding impels to the dead woman’s opening came to a stuttering halt as he emptied his contents into her; respect for the dead was by no means a priority. His choking came from pure exertion while he tried to compose himself but without removing himself from her. Rather than coping with his orgasm, he wallowed in the glorious aftermath with little consideration for if his partner was alive or dead. He rolled off to the other side of the king size bed, the corpse had served her purpose. He would use her again before he disposed of her but for now, was complacent enough to sleep beside her. Before he did that though, he seized the packet of cigarettes lighter and his phone for the usual post-coital ritual. His breathing had still to regulate but his lungs still dictated a cigarette to soothe his jitters and while he sucked on it, Tinder was opened once again. He swiped left on several; too boring, too modest, too sweet.

 

But then he found something else, something not quite of his norm. He took in the immaculate hair, the mysterious eyes, the cocky smile; magnificence at its finest….. **Lecturer at First Order University.** That twigged his interest. Yes, the intelligence was there, he could see it. Out of sheer curiosity, he swiped right and immediately, the **ding!** delighted him.

 

**It’s a Match! You and Y/N have liked each other!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jessika is not the reader. The reader will be introduced in chapter two which will be posted in the next day or so.


	2. Punish the Proud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reader has her wicked way with a certain pilot and when she's done with him, moves onto the next one in the shape of a mysterious redheaded surgeon.

On the same night, in the same city; a similar travesty occurred with the same twisted precision and same method to an incurable madness.

 

“Trans-Atlantic pilot. That’s…. Wow, that’s incredible.” Yes, he was hooked. The olive skinned stunner across the table worked the charms that always got him what he wanted and while you reacted the way he desired, you were more intelligent than that. A subtle tilt back of the head, a slow blink, a coy smile and a heightening of those breath-taking eyes that had captivated him (and not just him) enough to swipe right. Poe might have been so cocky to think he had you but _you_ had _him._ The flirtation had increased gradually on both sides but the eye-fucking had started from the moment you recognized him in the pub and sat down. “That takes intellect, dedication.” Your chin slotted into the snug crevice of your palm to gaze across the table at the _perfect_ specimen and Poe responded with an involuntary puff of his chest and a roll of his shoulders; how often did he have a woman to the point of swooning? He was clearly used to it.

 

“It’s not every night I get to sit across from a university lecturer, a doctor.” The proud American twang probably would have sent an excited shudder through anyone else and while you felt it too, it was different and far more sinister. He watched you with hunger lurking behind those magnificent brown eyes and though your features were significantly softer, your intentions were _much_ darker. His flattery continued when the desired reactions were extracted and so you kept feeding it, giving him what he wanted and luring him further and further beyond the point of no return. “A woman so striking and intelligent that I’m feeling a little stupid over here!”

 

“Oh stop!” Your laughter tinkled and caused a fresh look of wanting and intrigue to seep into those chiselled features. Temporary curls bounced with the coquettish flick and the seemingly innocent crossing of your legs was perhaps not so innocent when your foot _accidentally_ brushed his leg and paused there just long enough to be suggestive. “You don’t pilot jets with hundreds of lives entrusted to you by flunking and procrastinating! I think you have more brains than you’re letting on!” Pumping his ego is one way to drop his guard and by the way his hand lingered dangerously close to yours instead of his pint was a strong indication that your attempts to play the giggly, silly, hair-tossing bimbo were working. False sense of security? Tick that box.

 

“So umm…..” Poe’s voice had dropped despite the din of the bar around you though it made little difference as he had leaned in closer across the small table meant for two; naturally, you met him halfway. “I was thinking of maybe…. Not getting another drink after this one?” To emphasize the point, he’d lifted his almost empty glass barely an inch or so and gave it a little shake from side to side. Perhaps you played the part a little too well if he felt the need to add actions to his proposal so you would understand rather than him openly explaining it for neighbouring tables to hear. You waited for a second, letting him think it was sinking in while you returned that intense stare and continuing the dumb façade.

 

“Ohhh….!” The ‘realization’ was paired with a ditzy smile and a readying wiggle of your shoulders. Relieved and pleased that he didn’t have to explain it, he smirked along with you and waited. “Okay, yeah. Drink up then.”

 

“Well, your place or mine? I have a hotel room a short-“

 

“Mine.” You declare maybe a little too sharply but just enough to let him think you _want_ it. Hand still lingering on the glass, the intensity is shared between the two of you but he doesn’t protest. “You said you wanted to try new things? I have things at home we can try. And…. It’s soundproof.” If that didn’t rouse his interest, nothing would. There had to be a story there; what had happened to say you had soundproofed your home? Was it such a regular occurrence that you could justify the expense and the trouble to do so? Poor Poe, he wouldn’t discover the real reason until it was too late. “It’s only a few minutes away, we don’t need a taxi. Finish your drink.”

 

* * *

 

 

True to your word, a taxi was not required but wasn’t it more fun to stumble down the street on the arm of a handsome pilot, stopping for the occasional exchange of saliva and high on anticipation, _knowing_ what you were going to do to him? The journey should have taken maybe five or seven minutes but ended up taking approximately twenty since you and your prey took every opportunity to pin each other to any solid object (a lamppost, a fence, a wall, a telephone box) for yet another lewd embrace. Eventually and joined at the face once more, you and Poe fell through the door of your apartment though neither of you would remember closing it. The contact evolved from wanting touches to the blind, urgent tugging of clothes but more precision would be required than just tugging; the reason both of you were still in a frustrating state of dress.

 

“I got curious.” Poe admitted in a pant while he tried to look less frenzied in his stripping. Already poised on the bed in your Ann Summer’s best, you tilted your head a little in a silent invitation for him to continue. “When we matched, got talking.” His trousers had disappeared, flung somewhere without a second thought and it seemed talking and unbuttoning his shirt at the same time was too much for the foreigner. “I googled you. Found you on Youtube giving a lecture. Something about medieval torture methods.” You felt a smirk twitch at the corner of your lip but fought to control it, simply let your eyes scan the trail of hair; the end of which was covered by his last remaining garment: his boxers. “I watched it.” Significantly more collected now, Poe approached the side of the bed as your eyes heightened to his enlarging form. ”I watched you talk. Didn’t really listen, just watched. Watched your mouth.” Your chin was gripped gently but importunately and your head tilted back to meet his gaze. “And I found myself wondering….. What else can she do with that mouth?” Instead of restraining the smirk this time, you opted to let it spread like plague. Rolling from your side to your knees, you lifted your pure gaze to him once more while fingering the elastic of the boxers; a simple method of teasing.

 

“I suppose…..” Biting your lip and peeling back the material ever so briefly to take a swift peek; it was clear to see why he walked with such incurable swagger. “There’s really only one way to find out, isn’t there?” There was little more than a chuckle in response as he gathered your hair and draped it over one shoulder and held it there but for more than one purpose. Not just in consideration of keeping your hair out of your face but also the more selfish condition of being able to control your head. Already, liquids were beginning to gather as evidenced by the moist dot at the front of the boxers that you still toyed with but also starting to lubricate your own folds as prediction started to become reality. When you finally shimmied down the material; his cock sprang free of its confines and bounced almost in celebration with a little bead of pre-cum oozing as thanks, like a gift for liberation. _“Oh hello.”_ You greeted sweetly as you leaned in to kiss away the little pearl in front of your face; much to Poe’s amusement.

 

Rather than wasting time with idle chit chat that the organ could not reciprocate, you craned your neck and dipped low to scrape your tongue from the very bottom at the seam of his testicles to the tip where more pre-cum had bubbled specially for you. The long, deep _“Oooohhhhhhh….”_ Was certainly a good start and an even better incentive to keep going; as was the almost pained hiss as your tongue slithered directly to the opening at the tip. You took him gradually, despite the insistent fisting into your hair with frail attempts to push you beyond comfort but those appeared to have taken a back seat to the current pleasure for the moment. But why would you leave him starved? Hadn’t you invited him home with the intention of fulfilment and satisfaction? Maybe not just for him but also some of your ominous needs. So, with little persuasion, your head started to move with the help of lazy propels of his hips to meet your mouth and your fingernails marking their territory on his buttocks.

 

To look up and see those dark waves bouncing ever so slightly from the sways of his pelvis, his knees almost buckle under the strain of ecstasy and lids hooding spirited eyes while you worked your oral magic brought a flutter of pride to your chest. Two sets of groans (one more muffled than the other), the wet squelch of your unashamedly open mouth taking to its task and the occasional choking grunt elicited by every millimetre he crawled closer to the back of your throat; those were the only sounds to grace the bedroom air….. For now. Your speed increased and you fought your way through your discomfort to swallow as much of the well-travelled cock that your gag-reflex would allow (which seemed to be plenty) until his thrusts became more powerful and driven by pure hedonism.

 

You had become more than adept at reading the male orgasm and while it might have taken years to perfect, it was now an exceptionally useful tool. Before he could spill his load in an utterly selfish way, you withdrew to an involuntary snarl of protest. Slipping from the bed to the other side from where Poe still stood, you began to remove the (exorbitantly priced) bra and panties set, aware all the while that you were being watched. He didn’t require much encouragement to clamber onto the bed when his only indication was a wordless point though he continued to watch, fascinated as you prowled the room like your hidden predator to gather what you needed. He wanted new? You’d give him new.

 

The handcuffs didn’t seem to excite him all that much but you explained in a minacious purr that the cuffs were only a restraint for what you were _going_ to do. And you promised him it would be new; so new, in fact, that he would never experience it again. Poe failed to see the newness when you sank down onto his throbbing shaft but writhed in enjoyment regardless. As before, you took it slowly and you took it moderately with your hands propping you up against his chest and nails resuming their digging while you rode him. He strained against the cuffs, eager to touch and your smirk only grew with each attempt the pilot made against the spirals on either side of the headboard and his frustration when he failed.

 

Perhaps you were being too taunting, too teasing. When you’d lean down close to his face and graze your lips against his only to snatch them away mid-thrust when he tried to muster the brain power clogged by pleasure to respond. Hauling yourself back to your full height; you felt the reverberating moan as he watched you tinkering with your clitoris, slow and purposeful to drag out the desperate lust of the pilot sandwiched between you and your mattress. You couldn’t pinpoint it but somewhere along the way, Poe began to realize you were not as simple or airheaded as he had allowed himself to believe. Did that scare him? Being tied to the bed with no means of escape or self-help should have scared him; especially when he began to notice such a merciless change. But Poe was far too enveloped in physical euphoria; revelling in the smell of two connected humans, the slap of skin on skin and of course the sensation in his lower quarters that was different for each and every one of us.

 

His eyes had closed; he couldn’t have seen it coming. You leaned in again with raised eyes, examining the plump veins ballooning among the muscles under the strain of the cuffs, trying to choose which one to try first. But did it really matter? The blade seemed to sing as it swung and latched into his right wrist, pausing there for a moment while it gathered enough momentum to drag itself downwards and therefore tear through the flesh, almost to his elbow. Corrosive to the skin and detrimental to everything inside it, your close proximity was to taste the first taint of panic on his breath and you savoured just that when his eyes flew open. For a moment, everything seemed suspended in nothing while Poe tried to piece his situation together. He felt pain but couldn’t understand why. He saw blood but couldn’t decipher from where. He felt you close but not moving like you had been, more gently grinding rather than the full blown thrusts he had relished up until a few seconds ago.

 

The bravado and cockiness had evaporated and left little more than a frightened child. He looked from the devastating, vertical wound then back to you with ceaseless incomprehension, repeating the action until you were sure his neck was sore. But a crick in his neck was the least of Poe’s problems and he seemed to realize it. Especially when you wrenched out the pointed instrument and pierced the left wrist to match the right. Only then did he begin to scream and thrash in a petrified bid to throw you off but the damage was done even if he succeeded. He must have forgotten about the soundproofing, failed to remember that no one was going to hear him or help him. In his hysteria, the blood just seemed to scatter rather than seep. Scarlet coated you, Poe, the bed, the wall and beyond depending on how he tried to rattle himself free.

 

Of course, the more of fluster Poe tumbled into, the faster his heart raced and powered the blood through his veins until it reached the damaged ones, projecting it further and harder with every frantic move he made. Naturally, he couldn’t keep that up forever. The crimson (or what was left of it in his body) was a limited resource and was fast dwindling. His movements began to slow, his eyelids struggled to hold their own weight and anything that left his mouth simply did so as a jumble of vowels and consonants that probably made sense within his fizzing brain but meant nothing to you. Weakened to the point of drained exhaustion, it was only a matter of time so you swung off the paling form of the once fine womanizer Poe Dameron and sink down beside him without even an inkling of removing the cuffs.

 

Distraction came from the distinctive melody of your phone alerting you to a Tinder notification. Reaching across the trembling, dizzy, blood soaked mass to the bedside table; you found yourself not only with a match but also a message. Scrutinizing the picture for familiarity, you recognized him as the redheaded surgeon from Snoke’s. Not the handsomest fellow but grounded, wealthy (flauntingly so if the cat was anything to go by), massively intelligent and probably cocky; it was obvious that his matches (if he got any) were attracted to the money he didn’t bother to be modest about. The message was opened and scanned with mild surprise at the manners; it wouldn’t have surprised you if you were dealing with a conceited misogynist.

 

**Good evening.**

**I confess I needed to double check when I matched with you, in utter disbelief that you were in fact, who I recognized. I have followed your lectures for some time, in awe of the gruesome details (I’m a surgeon myself) and captivated by your flawless and fearless delivery. I admire that in a woman, a woman who defies convention of what she should and should not study, what she should and should not pursue; particularly if the subject is “unladylike”. I would love to discuss some of your topics in more detail and in person, Doctor, if you can spare me an evening of your no doubt exceptionally busy schedule. Of course, with the nature of Tinder, perhaps we could discuss more than just blood and gore? If the idea is appealing, please do message me back to arrange a convenient time. If not, no offence will be taken but I don’t think I need to remind you that you swiped right too! I look forward to hearing from you at your earliest possible convenience.**

**Warmest compliments,**

**A.Hux.**

 

A tad formal for a Tinder message? Perhaps but in his mind, he was sure an esteemed woman like yourself would appreciate an intellectual and more thought out message than “wanna fuck?” There may have been some ill-truths in the text. He did not recognize you when you popped up initially but the intrigue had clawed at him to such a degree that he couldn’t resist following Poe’s example and googling the university and your (first) name only to go from there to Youtube. From there, the rest of the message was true. You had captivated him with your intricate speech and horrendous details but all coming from the mouth of a woman he found magnificently compatible.

 

As you read it with Poe’s dying heaves barely audible in the background, you were certainly tempted. A surgeon? You’d be stupid not to. Let him spoil you for an evening or two, let Poe’s demise die down first and who knew, you might even get ideas if you poked a little. With that in mind, you began to type with the smell of iron thick in your nostrils. Was he even dead yet?

 

**Well! That’s a nice change from the messages I usually get! You’re indeed correct, Doctor, I did swipe right and I have every intention of living up to that responsibility. As for your request, I would love to discuss cannibalism over a good steak but alas, I don’t eat out very often so I will relinquish the responsibility of choosing a venue to you. My evenings are free as I finish at the university at about three so please do choose a time and day that suits your schedule as mine is reasonably flexible. I look forward to meeting you and testing how strong your stomach is!**

**Fond regards,**

**Y/N.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There she is! More fucked up messing around when these two meet in the next chapter! Hope you enjoyed! xxx


	3. Two Doctors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night of yours and Hux's first date arrives. But will it go to plan?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a disclaimer of sorts. Recently, I saw on the UK news that someone was targeting young, gay men on a dating app and murdering them. I'd like to stress that I drew no inspiration from this case whatsoever, I had actually started this story before I saw it and I don't even live in the UK. Just in case people were drawing parallels, I absolutely do not condone what happened and my condolences go to the victims and their families. I just felt it was right to put this out there as this story is not related whatsoever to the ongoing case.

The clock struck eight and he was already waiting, punctual and exact but of course, you had to be fashionably late.

You had chatted moderately on Tinder, exchanged phone numbers to text but neither of you really took up that option. Tinder was less demanding; there would be only one tinkle of the notification maybe an hour after the message was received and no tell-tale tick to show the message had been read. It was conveniently less committal than texting but when you did take the time, the conversation was vague; inquiring about each other's days, the weather and other such silly things. It seemed unspoken that you would save the real conversation for the first meeting and that night had finally arrived.

Nervous? No, not you. You had a flare for confidence and commanding attention; your job demanded it and why should your love life be any different? He bid you to meet him at the Savoy at 8pm and while he waited, you still lazily watched the passing scenes of progress beyond the windows of the taxi. _The Savoy…._ You remembered telling him you didn’t eat out much, you suggested he choose; but you didn’t think he’d choose like _this_. How were you to know that he’d only been there a few nights previous with another companion? Would you have cared? Of course not! You were being wined and dined by one of the best surgeons in the country and in one of the most expensive and exclusive restaurants in the city! Did he have a reason for bringing you here? …….Maybe.

“Doctor.” You greeted flawlessly when his head swiveled to the clicking of your heels on the pavement. He took in everything; your hair, your outfit, your make-up and of course, your self-assurance. Perhaps that was the most attractive thing but would you ever know?

“Doctor.” The reply was similar and reserved as he closed the distance between you. Clasping your outstretched hand as expected but lifting it to his lips instead; an unorthodox action that you responded to with a flirtatious smirk that put the redhead on a knife-like edge. _Let the games begin_. “Shall we?”

 

* * *

 

 

He was charming, complimentary and noticeably better looking than in his Tinder photos. No matter what you said or did, he watched and listened with a patient and interested curiosity but there was something about him... Something familiar.... You had never had surgery at Snoke's nor had you visited anyone there. True, you had been born there but you doubted your memory stretched that far and he only had two or three years on you at most. Had you seen him out and about? Perhaps but in such a large city with millions of people, it was highly unlikely. You both disliked nightclubs, opting for a quiet pub (like the one you had lured Poe from) but you would have remembered him. Maybe it wasn't his face or anything physical about him; it could have easily been a trait or something equally invisible.  
“Favourite method of torture?” It was almost cheerful as he sliced through that expensive slab of flesh, the faint dribble of blood seeping down onto the plate bothered neither of you. The questions had evolved from the basic first date chit-chat of where you had grown up to what led you to your respective fields and taken a more exciting turn.

“Oh you can’t make me answer that!” You protested playfully, having swallowed your own barely cooked mouthful and a splash of red wine to compliment the pinkened flesh. “It’s like asking me to choose between my children!” He gave no physical reaction to you mentioning children on a first date but internally, you recoiled. Did you even _want_ children? Hard to know but your current lifestyle certainly wouldn’t accommodate them. He chewed away happily (seeming to have abandoned his previously uptight demeanour, having grown comfortable in your presence) but watched with intensity and expectancy for an answer from across the table. First execution then disease and now torture, he had indeed proved his stomach was cast iron and his interest keen; not just on the topic of conversation but on the impressive woman in his sights.

“Oh come now! I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours!” Between the flowing alcohol and the undeniable compatibility; Hux had more than relaxed and truth be told? So had you. Another generous mouthful renewed his confidence to gaze upon you and encourage you to answer yet another sick question, not the first to be batted back and forth that evening; how blessed you both were that the restaurant was almost empty! “You know I’m far from sensitive, (Y/N), out with it!”

“Fine!” The muffled chuckle that greeted your faux pout did not go unnoticed, it was merely recognition of getting his own way but also….. He found it rather _cute_. Mopping up some marrowbone sauce with half a roast potato, his eyes found yours while both rows of teeth worked in tandem to pulverize it and reduce it to swallowing consistency; for such a thin man, he was quite fond of his food. “Have you ever heard of scaphism?” His face melted into a curious frown and you could probably assume that to be a negative.

“I don’t think I have.” He replied thoughtfully, pausing another forkful and maintaining his polished manners of never speaking with his mouth full. With no doubt that he was an intelligent man (who could come off as quite obnoxious at times), he was not ashamed when he didn’t know something. “I’m assuming it’s delightfully disturbing? Are you going to tell me about it or do I have to be rude and Google it?”

“Oh it is.” You promise with a wise, knowing incline of your head that only appeared to intrigue him further. “It’s so wonderfully disgusting and cruel, you may almost feel sorry for your victim.”

“You do know how to capture the intrigue!” He chortles with a pause of his fork; the look alone was flattery in itself. “But I’m dying to hear!”

“Very well.” You concede gracefully once another chunk of meat had met the required consistency for swallowing; it seemed he wouldn’t be pawned off any longer. “Scaphism is exceptionally slow and no doubt agonizing. It can take days.” He paused his elegant but enthusiastic swig of wine in another show of attentiveness but you continued as he obviously wanted you to do. “It’s an ancient Persian tradition of execution but I think the mere thought of it is enough to make anyone tell you what you want to know. The checklist might seem a little tedious but I promise, it’s more than worth it.” He knew you were teasing him just then to cut yourself another sliver and took to swirling his wine while you took your time. “The first thing you need is copious amounts of honey and milk to induce a severe case of diarrhea in your ‘interviewee’-“

 _“Interviewee!”_ He repeated with another good-natured titter, as if you were discussing the playful antics of puppies and kittens rather than arguably one of the most brutal execution methods to be conceived by the human mind. “I’m sorry, that’s wonderful and I’m sure I have milk and honey lying around at home somewhere. Please go on.”

“Ah but do you have a swamp and two boats at your disposal? Because if you do, I’ll be very impressed.” As if snatched by the opportunity to impress you but finding himself cornered by his lack of a swamp or indeed boats, his eyes heightened to yours but he remained silent. “I thought not. The purpose of the diarrhea is to render the victim not only dehydrated but also exceptionally smelly. I suppose the extra coating of milk on the body helps with the attraction of insects before they are tied between two boats in the center of the swamp.” Hux had stopped chewing, almost as if what he was hearing was too good to be true. There was that spark in his eye, that undeniable arousal and little were you to know that it was such a vile topic of conversation paired with the knowledgeable and prepossessing woman opposite him that piqued it.

“Between whatever is hiding beneath the surface of the water and the airborne insects, the victim spends the day having their flesh nibbled, bitten and eaten which makes for quite an unpleasant experience, wouldn’t you say?”

“Thrillingly so! But surely that’s not it?”

“Goodness no!” Another grateful gulp of the rich liquid (you had seen the wine list, none of it was cheap but he had selected the bottle and so you remained ignorant of the actual cost) wet your mouth to enable you to resume your gruesome recounting. “So, as you can imagine, the sanitary conditions in swamp water are non-existent.” His agreement was nodded through a mouthful of potato; if anyone knew about sterility and wounds, it was him. “The mouths of whatever bit them are hardly clean so infection is an inevitability and when the day is done, they are brought back to shore, fed more milk and honey only to repeat the process again the next day until death occurs. And that, my dear Doctor, is scaphism.” Exceptionally pleased with the look of almost dumfounded fascination, you drained the bottle into your glass and he made no move to stop you. “Now you have to tell me yours.”

“Well….” His throat was cleared to free himself when he realized just how truly stunned he appeared to be and a wipe of a white linen napkin to clear his lips of crimson. “My favourite form of torture and/or execution was rat torture. You know the one, I’m sure? Using a heated bucket to drive rats through the gut of the victim?”

“Eating their way through stomach and intestines? I do, I wrote a paper on it.”

“Yes, well, truth be told, I only know it from seeing it on Game of Thrones.” The confession was lighthearted with a shrug and a sweet grimace to match before his eyes found yours again with the previous intensity. “But I think I have a new favourite.”

“Stick with me, Doctor, and I’ll open your mind.” You assured him with a raising of your glass to a toast in which he joined you. “Not literally though, that’s your job.” The joke went down well, as did the rest of the main course. Dessert menus soon followed and though you tried to decline, he was terribly insistent. Black cherry, vanilla and Kirsch baked Alaska seemed too good to be missed and he agreed to join you in it.

“We need more wine as well.” He informed the waiter who had just taken the dessert order; a dark haired, neat young man clearly trying to pay his way through college. Scanning the wine list, he wanted something _luxurious_. “Bring us two glasses of the Petrus 1996, thank you.” The end of the sentence was punctuated with a sharp **_snap_** of the wine list as it shut and handed aloft for the much younger man to take.

“But sir, that’s-“  
“I know exactly what it is, Thanisson. Bring two glasses as I doubt your manager will be overly pleased with you refusing a loyal customer for the sake of a few thousand pounds! Go!” The look of irritation was swift but the composure took over quickly. Had you gotten a very quick glance at a temper? A temper it wouldn’t suit him for you to know he had? You remained unmoved by it though there seemed to be a twinge of awkwardness that he broke by excusing himself to the restroom.

 

* * *

 

  
“Give her the red stemmed glass, I’ll take the black. I need to be able to tell them apart.” Out of your view at the cocktail bar, the surgeon conversed quietly and hurriedly with the waiter; an accomplice. The restaurant had emptied but paranoia bit at him as he craned his neck in the direction of the table where you placidly swiped left and right on the screen of your phone. Only a few grains of the powdered substance would be all it would take and so the granules found themselves tumbling into the red stemmed glass while the black was safe. The hesitation and regret in the waiter was momentary and only lasted until a bundle of notes were pressed into his hand and subsequently weaseled into the black linen shirt of his uniform. “Don’t spend it all on weed this time, Thanisson, will you? Take the glasses over, I need the restroom.” It might not have been so clear to you but to Hux, the choice in venue was obvious; behind the scenes help.

 

* * *

 

  
Your phone was politely stowed away when you noticed his imminent return to the table. The glasses had been set down though you had yet to sample the dark crimson inside; you opted to wait for your host and he didn’t keep you waiting. No sooner had the glasses met the table, he returned to you and resumed his seat though for some reason, his attention turned to the glasses rather than you. It was only a brief distraction, of course, but noticeable all the same. He brushed it off, however, and conversation picked up where it had been left off. Something wasn’t right, he had been focused on you before but never like this; this was far more _intense…._ As if he was waiting for something.

Suddenly…. You recognized it. Something you couldn’t put your finger on earlier but now you saw it…. The same thing you admired in yourself in the mirror every morning, especially after a match. _Predation_. But… _Ohhhh…._

His head tilted involuntarily while you returned the intensity and picked up your glass. Holding it elegantly by the stem, you began to swirl it and with every twist of your wrist, his head seemed to resist rotating a small circle to follow you. What he also didn’t seem to realize is that you were playing with him. Your free index finger wetted itself in your mouth without removing your eyes from him before tracing along the rim of the glass to make it sing. His trance deepened by the unwavering eye contact and the physical rigidity when you lifted the glass to your lips but stopped and watched him loosen when you stopped but his gaze never faltered.

 _“Smells very rich.”_ You murmur coyly as he deflated when the base of your glass rested on the table once more. _“I couldn’t possibly….”_ His face became unreadable but if pressed, you could see a mixture of dread, fear and rage compiling in his features as your finger dipped and stirred in the dark red liquid. _“Oh but…. What’s this?”_ Like a child, uncomprehending, he stared at the transformation that took place on your fingertip; as the nail slowly changed from a generic red to an incriminating purple. _“Oh Doctor. Tut tut.”_ For a moment, he said nothing; just sullenly refused to look away from the glass that had betrayed him, as if trying to calculate what had happened. You waited. Waited for something, anything and you had almost given up until a meek but bold voice disrupted your wait; it also gave you great satisfaction to see he had paled significantly.

 _“What are you going to do?_ ” It was his turn to wait and wait for an answer you would make him. Instead, you continued to swirl the contents of the glass and the wine inside that could potentially be deadly, depending on the attacker’s mood. But now the attacker was cornered and his fate hung in the balance of your twisted imagination and vile sense of revenge.

“I could do a number of things.” You answered casually after a torturously long pause, anything to make him squirm and the vagueness seemed to do that. The extension in the silence was accidental as the young waiter returned with the desserts though neither of you could tear your gazes away from each other. While you remained passively flirty for the sake of the waiter and his impressions, Hux tried not to look utterly terrified; you put it down to never being caught before. Neither of you touched your third course, even after Thanisson had bowed himself away; Armitage, the confident surgeon, wanted to hear what you had in store. “I could call the police…..” He shifted in his seat and opened his mouth to protest but words failed him; you continued regardless with nonchalance. “I could have this entire place shut down but that’s too mild. Let me see here….” Eyes cast to the ceiling in playful thought and glass still in hand you already knew what you were going to do. The swallow from across the table was both audible and visible though he let nothing else slip past the guard he had built in the last few moments. "Or I could do what you intended to do and use my imagination." Those speckled characteristics melted into confusion when your arm stretched across the table to hold the glass of tampered wine out to him. **_“Drink it.”_**

You thought it would take more persuasion. And really, why should he trust you? What was to stop you doing all those things while he was incapacitated? Absolutely nothing. Nevertheless, he seized the glass and anchored his eyes with yours while he chugged down every poisoned drop. It wasn’t sophisticated or dignified, quite the opposite of his portrayal of himself since his arrival, if anything. But you entertained it; watched it with blatant satisfaction and echoes of it in your smirk. A reverberating **clunk** rang in the empty restaurant when the base of the glass hit the table. A very slight pant ruffled in his chest as he stared you down and stood by for the next instruction.

“Give me your phone.” Again, he complied without delay and soon, the latest (pristine) iPhone sat beside your forgotten dessert. You found his address, put it into your own phone and he did nothing to stop you. He placidly took back the phone when you handed it but somehow, you felt the docility was not of choice but from the drugs working their way from the inside out. When you stood, his vision followed you as if trying to fathom your movements but like a newborn deer, he too shuffled to his feet with the intention of blindly following you. “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

  
On occasion, you honed your acting skills in your lectures. Whether it was sharpening an axe with one beady eye on your students or recreating the screams common in a torture chamber, it made the lesson come alive which is why the seats were always filled and there were usually a few stragglers standing at the back. Now though, those skills were just for one person – the taxi driver.

“Are you free?!” You scrambled to the driver window in a faux panic that would have made any Oscar winner envious. For show, you glanced to where Hux sat slumped against a wall with his back scraping off the railings behind. “My boyfriend! They spiked my boyfriend! They were trying to get me but got the wrong drink!” Hux’s eyes were flickering and his mouth hung agape; the taxi driver leaned back in his seat to look and immediately, the key was turned in the ignition.

“Does he need to go to the hospital?!” You had already left the window and were now trying to adjust your arms around him to support him like any good girlfriend would – until the taxi man came to your aid. Then, you just hung back “worried” while the middle-aged male tried to wrestle your dead-weight date into the back of the car.

“No, I’m a nurse!” You lied again, careful to keep the alarm alive in your tone for the sake of performance. “I can look after him, I just need to get him home! That’s the address!” You handed him the phone with the address on the screen under the heading ‘Home’ before slipping into the backseat to pretend to make a fuss of the surgeon; even shedding a few petrified tears for good measure.

 

* * *

 

  
The sinister meowing of a lone cat echoed from somewhere deep in the bowels of the townhouse. The taxi driver would have given you faith in humanity if you were looking for it when he helped you support the now almost unconscious Hux up into his bedroom though you tipped him well for it. With him gone, you had scope for your mind to roam: _“What to do with you?”_ While he stirred and fought to open his eyes, you turned him on his stomach as for him to choke on his own puke would be a terrible waste. But what’s the worst thing any woman can do to an insatiable man? You turned on your heel and clipped out, leaving only a note and a waft of perfume behind.

 _Call me when you can stomach me. You and I have a lot to discuss._  
_Goodnight, Doctor. x_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, please forgive the delay in this chapter and other chapters (Pristine Condition, Precious Cargo, etc), I was on holidays!


	4. Bloodlust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've made him wait; ignored his calls, texts and messages. But what will he do when you break the silence?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever wondered about the goings on surrounding the deaths outside yours and Hux's little bubbles? Have you ever wondered about the police involvement? If you have, have a look at this!
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/8925760/chapters/20445589
> 
> If you're looking for another outlandish Hux fic, try this one! 
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/6641233/chapters/15193462

 “Hello, this is Dr (Y/L/N)’s office, how can I help you? Oh….” Maz’s make-up caked face fell into an attentive frown before her eyes flickered up to where you leaned against her desk; mid-chat. Suddenly, she snapped into action and dived into her desk for a notepad and a pen before frantically scribbling with the phone wedged between her cheek and her shoulder. “Of course, if you’ll just give me a moment to check…” Meanwhile, she had scrawled a name onto the pad and whipped it around to face you. _Dr Hux. Meeting?_ She knew you too well even though you knew little about her; where she came from and what her name was short for was a mystery to you. However, you had given her a _very_ watered down account of events three nights previous which led to the surgeon pursuing you relentlessly with purposely missed phone calls and radio silence. A simple nod was all she needed to carry on with the lie.

 

“I’m terribly sorry, Dr Hux but it appears she’s in a meeting right now and is taken up with lectures for the rest of the day.” A pause while she took in an explanation from the other end of the phone. “I’m afraid I can’t speak for her after hours. The only phone I can answer is this one; if she’s not answering her mobile, there’s little I can do.” Trust Hux to give Maz grief over something beyond her control but trust Maz to stand her ground with a pained roll of her eyes. “Yes, sir. I’ll pass on the message and I’ll have her call you at some point today. Yes, as soon as she gets out of the meeting. Yes, before she breaks for lunch. Yes, before she draws a breath. Good day, Doctor.” With the call carefully hung up, Maz’s gaze returned to you but this time, incredulous. “I can see why you’re avoiding him.”

 

“I’m not _avoiding_ him.” You reply casually with a small shrug and a careless examine of your nails. “I’m _playing_ with him.” The difference was outlined purposely and judging by the smirk and the quirked eyebrow, she had played your game before. “I’ll call him later; it’s been three days, it’s about time I let him catch me.”

 

“You gonna let him catch you in the Savoy?” Trust Maz to play coy but she had been completely taken aback when she learned the venue of the first date and a little bit disappointed that none of her dates had ended up there.

 

“No. We’re going to play on _my_ turf next time.”

 

* * *

 

 

The call went dead only for the ward phone to be hurled down onto the counter with incredible temper and a furious scoff like a child on the brink of tantrum. He stared at it as if the object itself had offended him while he barely kept himself in check when he reminded himself of where he was.

 

"Still nothing?" The voice landed him hard in reality. Stripping off a pair of blue latex gloves (he preferred non-powdered); a younger, dark haired man with a closeted homosexuality and his favourite surgery nurse had appeared fresh from the theatre - the patient had (of course) survived. Mitaka – his confidante. Well…. Not with everything.

 

"It's been three days!" Hux allowed himself a bite of frustration to the trusted source. "What do I have to do?!" In those three days, Armitage found himself obsessing and lacking in concentration; admittedly, the worst time for such a lapse was while he had a scalpel in his hand but there was no telling when it would strike. All the more reason to cure this terrible itch that tormented him in the form of a woman like no other. When he woke up a few hours after to your departure to a simple and vague note, he had felt inexplicably cheated. Groggy and all as he had been, he still raced to the front door (stumbling quite a bit along the way) and wrenched it open to look up and down the street but, of course, you were long gone.

 

And the note hadn't left his person since. It remained possessively in his pocket (coat, trousers, pyjamas, surgical scrubs) as if to have it close would summon you at any given time and he had to be ready. _Call me when you can stomach me._ Whatever "stomaching" entailed, he was ready but the attempts at contact were being ignored. Had this been another conquest, he would have cut his losses and moved on but you weren't just another conquest; you had rounded on him completely and turned the tables of his carefully laid plans. Had that fateful night revealed something that he thought he would never find? Someone just like him? Someone who was more than an expensive meal, a dying fuck and a workout when disposing of the body? No, you sent different chills down his spine. You sent his imagination into places it had never been but he daren’t hope that he had found someone as _dark_ as he was.

 

“Maybe she’s not interested.” Mitaka shrugged, taking the space beside Hux at the countertop to begin filling in his share of the paperwork. “Tinder isn’t exactly the most stable place to meet someone; she could’ve forgotten about you already. And I can’t for the life of me understand why you insist on using Tinder anyway.” The redhead shifted uncomfortably at the mention of Tinder; he now only touched the app to root your out number, send a few desperate messages to your profile and no swiping had been done either. “Give her some space.” He advised reasonably. “Let her come to you. If she doesn’t contact you by tomorrow, try someone else.”

 

Wise young Mitaka. Though Hux had endured the advice and grudgingly accepted it, his patience was about to be rewarded; approximately twenty minutes after he got home that evening, in fact. Fire lit, dinner in the oven, Millicent purring on the sofa; he was only in a fit mood to change into his pyjamas and sulk like a teenager until his phone trilled. He assumed it was simply Mitaka telling him he had forgotten something at the hospital; that wasn’t uncommon in his ongoing state of pre-occupation. However, instead of “ _You forgot your….”,_ he was greeted with something far less monotonous and much more intriguing.

 _“I hope you haven’t forgotten about me? x”_ The text itself and the single kiss at the end of it sent him scrambling after the initial tidal wave of disbelief and almost childlike excitement had subsided. Carefully, he seated himself beside the cat while he composed his nerve and whetted his lips to concentrate on a crucial few words.

 

 _“Never. x”_ Or maybe just one word. Before he could stop himself to elaborate, he sent it and only then did he take a moment to scold himself for acting so rashly. You had made him slog through three days of ignored calls, texts and Tinder messages; not to mention the creativity of ferreting out the number of your office, only to respond instantly to the first scrap of attention in what seemed like an eternity. Hux stared at the screen; harassed. He refused to put the phone out of his hand in case your enthusiasm matched his own but somewhere in his logic, he doubted that would be the case. Lips smacking nervously, palms sliding subconsciously up and down on his thighs and breath quivering; he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes from the short conversation on the screen. He sat there as the minutes crawled by with hope slowly dying in his chest, becoming more and more convinced that it was a cruel trick; simple bait to keep his interest (and desperation) piqued. Until…..

 

_“I know you’ve been thinking about me.”_

_“Constantly.”_ Came the simpering and immediate response but he no longer cared for demeanour.

_“I’ve been thinking about you too.”_

_“I need to see you.”_

_“Why?”_

_“I think you know why.”_

_“Perhaps I do. But how am I to know our evening won’t take the same path as the last one?”_

_“It won’t. I swear, it won’t. You said we have things to discuss and we do so we should discuss them but I **need** to see you.”_

_“Do you always grovel like this?”_

_“No. No one has ever put me in a position where I needed to but you have. Please. Don’t torture me like I know you can.”_ The conversation tapered off into what he could only assume was contemplative silence. His pleading stared up at him from the lit screen, almost jeering his forlornness; indeed, it was uncharted territory but circumstance dictated: He couldn’t afford to lose you now. When it appeared you had nothing more to say, he resigned himself to yet another night of wallowing. But ever the reader of a situation, you struck again when his mood hit its lowest. 

 

 _“Drop whatever it is you’re doing and come to me.”_ As if he needed encouragement. Scrambling to his feet, he stared dumbstruck and expectant for the final piece of the exchange. When it came, his dinner and his fire were abandoned in favour of a new sliver of information – Your address.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The door was unlocked. He wasn't sure what possessed him to try it before knocking but it yielded results.  The door swung open to reveal an ominously empty hallway with no guidance other than candles mounted on ornamental cast-iron holders secured along the wall. He crept past each one as if it might leap out at him but of course, none of them did so he followed the eerie glow until they brought him to another door. With a self-assuring glance behind, Armitage braved on and right into your clutches.

 

 

* * *

 

 

You waited. Sprawled invitingly across your bed, propped up on your elbow in yet another set of Ann Summers (black and emerald; the Loki, you called it), you waited and when the front door handle clicked, you knew your patience had been rewarded. Eventually, he appeared; uncertain as he peered around the door like a child into its parent's room. His eyes almost watered to spy you in all your lingerie glory but you said nothing; you wanted the first uttered words to drop from his dry lips. With a surge of confidence, the door snapped shut and finality echoed in that swift bang.

 

"Why didn't you do something?" The delayed question of reverence was murmured as if he was in a place of sanctity, a church or a tomb. Your head tilted and urged him silently to continue; he did as he was wordlessly bid. "You could have done anything to me. You could've killed me, raped me, had me arrested.... You didn't do any of those things. Why?"

 

“And what was _your_ plan?” You asked, oozing nonchalance as you sat up properly and crossed your legs to maximize the alluring image and his breath seemed to hitch. “Had you succeeded, what would you have done?”

 

“The same, bar the latter.” He confessed, chancing a step forward into the dimly lit room and one closer to you. “Raped you. Killed you.” You surprised him with yet another inkling of your head, a quirk of your eyebrow and something dangerous lurking behind that smirk.

 

“Is it rape if I can’t consent because of incapacitation?” You already knew the answer.

“It would have been rape since I took your consent when I drugged you.”

“Ah, but _I_ drugged _you_. Did you learn anything from that experience?” He lapsed into careful quiet; clearly choosing his words in the way he sucked his bottom lip but refused to shift his gaze to anywhere but you.

 

“I did discover something, yes.” Before you could ask for more, he crossed the room and sank to his knees in utter veneration at your feet with his eyes alight. “I discovered that you and I are one of the same; that we are cut from the same cloth and that is why I’ve hounded you for the past three days. Lying awake at night, unable to concentrate in theatre, staring at food as if I’ve forgotten what to do with it….” Hux stopped and indulged in a breath; allowing himself to become accustomed to the feeling of laying himself bare. That look was unwaveringly desperate but behind it, something smouldered and pleaded to be set free. “I am tired of hiding. I am weary from being someone, _something_ that I’m not and I need you to release me.” What could you say to that? To truly be cruel would have been to reject him then and there where he splayed himself so helplessly but in truth? Your feelings mirrored his; you were just better at hiding it.

 

“Come here.” You were heeded at once. His pilgrimage was short but no less sacred than to any holy site and the promise of salvation was the same. The press of unworthy lips to your bare thigh and the brief heighten of frightened eyes to yours was met with no resistance so he resumed his unrequited affection, still not entirely convinced that he wasn't dreaming. He stopped at your movement, fearing incompetent wrongdoing on his part but instead, he felt his stomach tighten and his mouth wetten when your hands went to your hips and began to shimmy the lace garment covering your modesty down your legs; his face lit up like he hadn't had a meal in years and was suddenly presented with a feast. _“I told you to call me when you could stomach me.”_ You began softly as the garment came free and you leaned forward to stuff them into his breast pocket. _“Let’s see if you can.”_

He took it as a personal challenge. With the barrier gone, he dove head first into the gap you'd opened in your legs with an almost pained groan of relief before submerging himself in the glorious heat. However, he surfaced a moment or so later, eyes glazed like a believer if they had witnessed the Second Coming. The smear across his lips and on his nose intruded his senses as he realized your obscene test; _Call me if you can stomach me_.

 

"You're...." He seemed lost for anything else to say until you leaned in again to claim those trembling, crimson-stained lips; a gesture he returned wholeheartedly. If he had any doubts about you before, they had been abolished unlike the tang of iron on his tongue and the aroma lingering in his nostrils. He had finally found someone as criminally debauched as himself; someone so twisted that he'd given up hope of ever finding. And he wasn't letting you go now.

 

Wrenching himself away, he returned to his task vigorously when your back hit the mattress with a thump and a villainously sweet giggle as he clambered up to maximize the contact. Desperate to please, you could feel the gaze longing for praise in the same way that you could feel his tongue slithering between your soaked folds. When you eventually caved and entangled a hand into those fiery strands, he became seized by such absolute passion that your leg was grabbed before being hauled over his shoulder with another animalistic snarl. Your legs quaked and your stomach bubbled at the wet heat as his whole mouth enveloped your sopping cunt; the smell of a slaughterhouse becoming more prominent as his fervour continued to the sounds of simultaneous effort and pleasure.

 

 _"Good boy..."_ The praise was lapped up in the same way his saliva-coated muscle lapped at your clit, burrowed under your fleshy hood and dug deeper and deeper into your femininity. Writhing against his insistent grasp, he would ether die than relinquish you; at least until he was done. Or rather, until you were. If the rare steak and the surgical profession weren't proof enough that Hux wasn't squeamish, he was certainly proving it now as every ecstatic moan marked the willing ingestion of more blood.

 

Chest rising and falling rapidly, you crawled closer and closer to your peak and Armitage seemed determined to drag you there; eager to show that keeping him would not be a mistake but you already knew that. Your vision directed to the mirror beside your bed; the full length of the four-doored wardrobe had been purposeful to watch your morbid escapades from a different angle. Your self-voyeurism displayed your own heaving form on your back, each arm gripping the opposite forearm, one leg bent and the other tossed carelessly over the shoulder of the imposing redhead; your reactions captivated you most though.

 

The involuntary flickers of your eyelids when he stroked a certain spot, the demanding thrusting of your hips to force him in deeper and the shaking of your knees as your orgasm began to caress you not only fascinated you but seemed to spur your companion on too. You were convinced, at least, that he was worthy of your time, your attention and maybe even your affection but time would tell and for now, you would keep him guessing. Hux was adamant; the tenacious grip on your hip and leg and the unrelenting swipes of his tongue were greeted by pants, whimpers and mewls of utter delight, had you ever been this vocal? The dull ache of an incoming peak rocked its way through your body; sizzling every nerve and frying every thought that dared to try and enter your head. Mouth as dry as his was wet, face contorted in pure bliss, eyes shut tight and pussy aching; he wasn’t letting go until he heard you scream so you decided he had worked enough. And in that act of mercy, you let go.

 

 _“Fuck…. Oh God…… **Fuck!”**_ As if afraid to look for fear of being scolded, you saw the peep from between your thighs and held his stare; the challenge alone making him work harder and harder with fervour as he watched you come undone before his very eyes. _“Uhhh….. Ahhh…. Aggghhh!! Yes…. Yes…. **Yes….!!**_ ” Until eventually with one final convulse and random bucking of your hips, your entire body just gave way and handed itself over to pleasure. **_“FUCK YES!!”_** That erotic display caused him to ease to a ease his efforts to a stop and carefully crawl up where he found the bouquet of blood was replaced with the glorious fragrance of sweat. He stopped long enough for you to admire the thin film of your monthly plague coating the lower half of his face before he dropped to share it with you like any good partner would.

 

You knew that zest, you’d had it before but never quite like this. Tongues warring, lips wrestling; the urge to pass as much of it back to the other as possible was palpable until he stopped and lay the soiled bridge of his nose against yours in a show of unmistakable relief and affection.

 

_“I’m going to give you ten seconds to get your breath back….. Then I’m going to fuck you into the mattress.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do review! xxx
> 
> And Happy Birthday to Venusss!!! :D <3


	5. Bloodbound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six months since the first taste of blood but you and Armitage are still going strong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m slowly emerging from writer’s block so thank you for bearing with me and I do hope it’s up to the usual standard that you’ve come to expect. ❤

Hot. Dark. Sticky. Binding. The blood did its job. Propped up by the cushioned headboard that had no doubt seen plenty, you were not alone. Sitting up in bed in an insistent one armed grasp, your lips had been claimed, your jaw had been pried open and your tongue warred with another; however, that was not the greatest depths of the physical contact. That came from two joined hands, one each though it did not stop there. Commitment and trust seeped between the conjoined palms and interlocked fingers; it dripped onto the sheets and glistened on the scalpel on the bedside locker six months after the first taste of blood was sampled. If either of you had anything, the other had it now in the most serious and dangerous method of exchange of bodily fluids but there was no going back. Hands clasped tightly to each other to complete the seal, this was not undertaken lightly nor was there any taint of reluctance from either palm. True, it stung but you relished it as it bound you most eternally to your depraved soulmate; your absolute equal.

 

You made an abominable pair of two of a kind. The universe had moved to great lengths to ensure that two such despicable individuals had occurred together at the same time, existed in the same place and even more astonishingly, found each other. Together; you represented twice the blood, twice the devastation and twice the victims. Or at least, you would. In the last six months, you and the surgeon had bonded over a love of terrible and unspeakable things; you had recounted your bloody tales to him and he had matched you for every gory detail: you were meant to be. Though the relationship had blossomed like no other, fuelled by the most based, carnal desires that most couples would shrink away from; the grating was there in the background, seemingly constant. You needed a fresh kill, your first one together but Poe and Jessika had (unknowingly) happened too closely together with authorities still investigating and the lambs on the street still on alert.

 

It would take time; time you both had but were hesitant to part with as frustration started to raise its ugly head. And what is the best way to deal with frustration? Fuck it out, of course.  

 

* * *

 

 

The scene couldn't have been any more ominous and eerie even if it was lifted straight from a Stephen King novel; complete with wheel-worn tiles in the hallway, the audible vibration of the buzzing florescent lights, gurneys long since deserted and otherwise boundless silence only broken by the nearing, patterned click of a woman’s stilettos…. Your stilettos. This part of the hospital didn’t see as much traffic or footfall as the rest though it was used daily and was very much the backbone of the entire establishment. After all, we all visit it eventually. You had never been to this part of the hospital before, despite how he loved to show you off; now, you very much relied on the somewhat grotty signs rather than memory to reach your destination and the closer you seemed to draw, the more decrepit it seemed to become. Eventually, your disoriented vision found the peeling painted letters that you sought.

 

You could rely on your nose from there; the nasal assault of disinfectant (more so than the rest of the squeaky clean and naturally lit corridors) was overwhelming, so much so that the signs were no longer a necessity. The chill in the air, that prompt to pull your coat closer around you indicated the proximity to the cold storage and the fumbling for the key card was a grateful excuse to put your hand in your pocket. The first episode of The Walking Dead sprung to mind when your eyes heightened to the imposing double doors he’d mentioned to you, the ones with the tell-tale department painted over them like the gates to Hell and the key card reader stationed on the right-hand side. While they resembled the loose swinging doors in the rest of the hospital that allowed a gurney through with the slightest force from either side, these were kept in place with magnetic bolts at the top and at the bottom; only bowing to the command of the key card. You ignored the box of shoe covers and the sign that politely requested them before entering the aseptic zone.

 

These doors, also unlike their busier counterparts, had no light emanating from the criss-crossed glass panels at about face-height to ensure no one would sustain an injury from a gurney passing from the other side; they remained in blackness as if unexpectant of a visitor. However, when the red turned to green on the scanner with the swipe of the card and the little beep that briefly broke the monotonous drone of the lights above; sleepy stirrings of life started to flicker behind the darkened panes. Perhaps life is the wrong word for where you were about to set foot but the lights started to stabilize and continue the flat humming of their brothers on the other side of the door that had just clicked back into its metallic lock behind you. Flooded with light now, it was as much a horror movie set as you imagined; much to your terrible delight.

 

Utter morbid _fascination_ engulfed you as your new surroundings began to unfold before your very eyes. True, the drawers were closed but you knew better than to think they were empty in a thriving hospital. The stannic slabs, three in a perfect line under matching examination lamps, may or may not have been recently used; they were so pristine it was impossible to tell. Each was headed by a compact and extendable shower head; for rinsing the body prior to dissection and embalming, you presumed. With each careful step into the mortuary, the grip of your heels got looser on the sterile tiles that appeared to be cleaned far more often than the hallways outside, for obvious reasons of hygiene. This same floor dipped ever so subtly in the centre of the room to lead to a drain and while it never occurred to you that a drain might be sinister, when the sole purpose of it was to siphon away blood and corpse-cleansing water, there was no question in branding it so.

 

Various instruments for slicing, prying and extraction lay in neat rows in immaculate steel trays, one set per slab as if more than one technician would be working at any given time.  A container caught your eye on a shelf off in the corner of the room; a simple box with a simple but chilling label – _Personal Belongings._ What those belongings entailed – jewellery, wallets, piercings, pocket change – would remain a mystery as you disregarded the box without another thought to feast your eyes elsewhere. Another container of disposable rubber gloves, a bright yellow box for used needles, a hand wash station in the corner, a stack of carry boxes labelled _Human Tissue for Transport;_ all these smaller details combined to complete the image of the Holy Grail for the macabre of mind. That was, of course, until everything went black.

 

The stench of the disinfectant was mercifully disrupted by another familiar aroma wafting from somewhere out of the darkness matched with a pressure over your eyes where the sight had been stolen from. A predatory breath tickled your neck as you inhaled the aftershave you had given as a birthday present a month or so ago and a staunch frame pressed to yours from behind to guide a tantalizing lick from your collarbone all the way to the lobe of your ear only for it to be tugged by a set of impatient teeth. A soft titter of laughter rumbled in your chest and he could feel it in his; just like you could feel the manoeuvring from back to front but your eyes remained covered. His kiss was unlike any you’d tasted before in another man; his had a primal hunger to it that encouraged your own to reciprocate and he made no apologies for seducing your nature to the same sybaritic and licentious level as his own. Not that you needed much encouragement anyway.

 

“Do you mean to tell me……” You began with echoes of amusement still in your tone before he stole another blind kiss that you more than willingly gave up. “That you’ve been standing in the dark, waiting for me?”

 

“You act like there’s something to fear. I find it rather peaceful down here actually.” He retorted, removing his ivory hand and putting it to better use to pull you closer; he definitely had something in mind, you knew that look. Your libertine was almost nose to nose with you now, loving the way you goaded him with that luxurious and demanding smirk; your relationship had been built on such careless and aggressive lust that to be caring and sweet just didn't work. He always took the time to familiarize himself with you as you were that day, whatever shampoo you had used, whatever perfume or fabric conditioner; he was extremely sensory and to be sensory, he argued, was the root of sensuality. “And since some inconsiderate….” He left a gap in between each press of his lips to yours and said gap linked one complaint to another. “Individual decided he had to have…..” And another. “A heart transplant **today** of all days….” And another. “I needed to see you as I might not be home until tomorrow morning.”

 

 _“Tomorrow morning.”_ Your disappointed breath was drunk in since he still lingered so close. “Is that why you persisted on bringing me down here?”

  
  
“Well, you’ve always wanted to see it.” He replied, opting not to feed from your breath any longer and saunter around the immediate floor space of the mortuary with arms outstretched as if to adoringly embrace the entire room. “And _this_ ….. Is **it**. Let me give you a tour.” He took an almost bewildered glance around the bare four walls as if trying to decide where to begin or even where he was.

 

“I’m spending my Saturday afternoon in a morgue?” You reprimanded him playfully with a cocked eyebrow, causing him to pause with his hand coiled around the handle of a drawer.

 

“Mortuary, my love.” He corrected you, sharing your tone with a boyish incline of his head and a grin to match. “You watch too much American television.” A long, drawn-out, stuttering **_CLATTER_** shattered the previously respectful atmosphere upon the swift whip back of his arm, pulling the drawer with it. It rebounded ever so slightly with the force of the pull, shrinking back towards the drawer by a few centimetres automatically until it settled and the fizzing silence enrobed itself on the mortuary once more. “This is Mr Charles Langley, died of an aneurism yesterday, nothing to be done.” He informed you, chirpy and fond of the grey faced gentleman, who was naked but covered from the shoulders down on the burnished base of the drawer; the whiteness of the sheet seemed even more brilliant and pure by the off coloured corpse beneath it. He was maybe in his late forties, plenty of life left to live but cut short by one traitorous organ. Before your curiosity could delve further, he moved to the next but left the drawer open.

 

“And this…..” He consulted no chart as he flicked open the second drawer with confidence and hauled it with the same effort as before; he seemed to know each bundle of remains before he saw them and their cause of death just by their drawer. The **_CLACKING_** erupted around you again and instead of a middle-aged man, you were faced with the gaunt wrinkles of an elderly woman maybe twice his age. “Is Gladys.” His gaze swept the form of the woman whose modesty relied on a sheet and nothing more. “Gladys Burns. Funnily enough, that's just how dear old Gladys’ family plan on disposing of her.”

 

“And what happened to Gladys?” You asked, unabashed as your eyes zoomed in on the toe-tag where her name, date of birth and date of death among other details were printed.

 

“She fell leaving her home a few days ago.” He responded almost warmly and you had to note how utterly comfortable and competent he was in this space, despite being a surgeon and not a mortician though one fed off the other. “You see, Gladys liked to sleep-walk. Well, I suppose “liked” is the wrong word but in any case, she did sleepwalk. Living alone, there was no one to stop her venturing out on one of those icy nights we had in the last week or so, slipping and subsequently developing hypothermia while waiting to be noticed.”

 

“Poor Gladys.” You remarked though you lacked the same compassion that he held; he still stared at that colourless face with a soft grimace as if the woman was merely sleeping rather than expired by a few days. He moved on; leaving the drawer open like the previous one and ambling away to another only a four or five feet away. This time, you were not caught off guard by the noise that had proceeded each new face but rather the one that greeted you this time.

 

“Liam Sutton.” He introduced brightly as the mangled mess of an alleged human being slid from its privacy and out into scrutiny. You paced around the polished extension of the drawer and searched for any indication of age, sex or cause of death but speechless, you came up with nothing; he was happy to fill you in. “Car crash victims are always the worst; well, not always.” He remarked lightly as if commenting on the weather but looking down at “Liam” with the same fondness of the others, that lingering familiarity and almost perversion was always there. “Liam hasn’t been seen by a facial reconstruction specialist yet but it will be necessary; his parents want an open coffin.” The toe tag (like the others) bore his date of birth and date of death and a quick calculation in your mind told you he was barely seventeen. When you looked up again, the surgeon was trained on you and even on your way down here, you knew what to expect and welcomed it wholeheartedly.

 

He invaded your immediate vicinity once more and reclaimed your lips as if desire had been awoken by the cadavers on display. For others, such a gruesome environment and an audience of the dead would not have stoked such unashamed ardour but you and Armitage Hux were a dreadful pair like no other. You gave him the response you always did; sealing his mouth with yours and tracing his bottom lip with your tongue before he granted you entry where yours toyed with his. You moved together as one, melted into each other and moved as a single entity to where he guided you – the dissection slabs. Sharing one breath and rashly bundling up the material of your skirt, he took control to ensure your bottom met the bitingly cold plane where some unfortunate had been dissected only a few hours previous. Dropping your eyes in wanton, they automatically found your favourite part straining against the confines of his surgical scrubs but no doubt, it would be released soon enough.

 

 _“Please….”_ You whined, prompted by the nudging of his thighs between yours and the slow, agonizing grinding of his engorged length against the sticky patch on the crotch of your underwear. Instead of relief, he gifted you a quiet bark of laughter and dipped even further to press an icy kiss to the quake in your core.

 

 _“You know I love it when you beg, sweetheart.”_ That beautiful purr was swiftly followed by a soft snarl as he snatched the guarding material between his teeth and tugged it to the side to reveal the vulnerable twitch in which he buried his face. Your breath hitched at the almost playful nips to your labia but there was no way he brought you down here for that; not when he made a habit of doing it on a regular basis. Dragging his tongue from the puckered hole of your anus, pushing into it suggestively and then all the way up to lightly tinker with your clit, his eyes found yours again; alight with arousal. _“No blood for me?”_

_“You cleaned it all out last week, my love.”_ You reminded him sweetly, like one would remind a child of who had eaten the last biscuit. _“There are plenty of men who bring their partner’s worn underwear to work but not so many would be so keen on a blood-stained set.”_

“As if that doesn’t flatter you to the highest degree.” He replied with the barest breeze of sarcasm as he pulled away and donated his attention to the tray beside the slab. When you entered, you assumed each one had the same uniform instruments though you didn’t have time to inspect each one before you were set upon; it seemed they were not the same, the one he focused on had been customized specially for your visit. “Besides…. It was too good to waste. Probably not the most hygienic thing to have in theatre, I grant you but no one died.”

 

“I think I know how you spent your lunchbreaks.” You teased and from the quirk of the flaming eyebrow and scarcely restrained smirk, you could assume you were correct. Your coat was disposed of as you slowly acclimatized to the fridge-like environment and the saliva-coated briefs were discarded with it though the spit consisted of the minimum moisture on the garment. The height adjustable slab was uncomfortable; perhaps that was even a generous term. Flat, cold and unsuited to the living but your torso remained nonetheless while your legs splayed to the degree he had left them. When he returned his heed to you, you knew better than to question his intentions and it seemed he counted on your cooperation.

 

“Turn over.” The instruction was clear if vague but you obeyed regardless; hauling your legs onto the slab as well, spread and inviting with your bottom in the air so he could survey you thoroughly. Spine sloping and chest touching the pearlescent base, it almost felt as if your lifeless audience had turned their heads to you; watching in earnest of living pornography as you faced them. Sensitive below the waist, it was impossible not to feel him poking around in a careful examination of your femininity with latex wrapped fingers as if he didn’t know it to its fullest already. Today, you were at his mercy as he was often at yours; there was never any spoken agreement or daily declaration of dominance, you were so well in tune with each other that it just fell into place and a good time was had by all.

 

_“Aaaaahhhhh….!”_

_“Shhhhshhhhshhh…. Good girl.”_ The sharp sting of ice seemed to come from nowhere as you felt yourself being stretched by something far more rigid than fingers; even a neck-tugging glance over your shoulder yielded no answers but you knew better than to ask. The probing invaded not your womanhood any longer but rather the tighter hole above it as a foreign object of substantial (for an unlubricated orifice, at least) size was inserted. As if to let you acclimatize to both the temperature and the sudden imposing of the unidentified object, he paused and simply watched with half-lidded eyes of ecstasy as your hole tried to cope. Jaw slack and ass puckered closed around some strange instrument, you had little choice but to wait for something to happen, no matter how disagreeable the position. After a few moments though, something else began to happen.

 

 _“Oh my…. God!”_ That tickle like chuckle did nothing to assure you. Your immediate exclaim came from a disconcerting shimmying of the thing embedded in your anus, pushing against your walls and fighting the resistance of your muscles in such a way that it had to be made of metal and a good quality one at that. He decided not to leave you in the metaphorical dark, any longer.

 

“It’s a forceps.” Again, the flippancy did nothing to ease your discomfort but you knew from experience that it could only get better. His controlling hand, the puppet master, adjusted even more to widen the now gaping crevice that strained in protest against the metallic tool but only fuelled his fascination even more as he peered in and adjusted the forceps with a slight twist. “Ones of this size are used for delivering very pre-mature babies but….. I’ve always felt there could be other uses for them.”

 

 _“And those…. are?”_ You managed in a pant while your brain had begun reassigning your pain and almost assuring your body that it didn’t exist. The base of the slab started to heat under your knees from the friction of your fidgeting attempts at easing yourself before another distraction came in the form of a mechanical whirring as your platform began to lower slowly and steadily by several inches; again, you dared not move. You only noticed the stop when the familiar sensation of a weeping cock pressed to the unharassed but soaking folds of your honeypot and even though that wasn’t necessarily his focus, it pleased him anyway. The pressing evolved into a leisurely hump-like action, where he would push to just the right degree to extract a reaction but not enough to commit to the act itself. It seemed he wanted you to rely on your imagination; you could see nothing but you could picture his scrubs around his ankles and that utter smugness he always had when he dominated you.

 

“Holding things open.” He replied plainly and the very fact that he was so comfortable in a morgue (sorry, _mortuary_ ) with a forceps should have sent alarm bells screaming but it was merely part of the sick nature you had become to know, expect and even love. The grinding of his heat-seeking organ against yours became more purposeful, demanding even but he never once gave into temptation, not yet, at least. You felt him lean back and automatically, you tried to follow him with a desperate wiggle of your hips but almost lost your balance on the slab in the process and so thought better of it. If he noticed your near stumble, he didn’t comment; then again, he may have been too taken in by his next move. Your mouth fell agape again as he resumed the maximum contact to where he wanted to be and continuing those suggestive lifting and lowerings of his hips to where your slick never stopped gathering. “This is going to be cold, darling. Brace yourself.”

 

**_“Aaaagghhhh!!”_ **

****

“I did warn you.” Your arms had crossed to serve as something of a pillow against the chill of the slab and significant progress had been made in regulating your body temperature but it had all become undone by the generous (or rather, heavy-handed) squirt of medical lube directly beyond the hinge of the forceps and seep into the contracting and expanding orifice. To make matters worse, he pushed it down and coated the tunnel as far down as he could with little concern for if you were ready or not. Armitage revelled with Cheshire-like glee in your almost agonized gasps and restless squirming while you choked on dry sobs of distress and low mewls of tribulation; was there a point to it all? Probably not.

_“I.... I can't!”_

“Easy, darling. I'm almost finished.” You took him at his word and waited for the clawing in your anus to be over. Nearly numb from both the gelid temperature of the lubricant (the temperature was of little consequence to the dead, the ones it was intended for use upon) and the repetitive scraping of the forceps on your walls, it could easily have gone unnoticed when he did eventually begin to salvage the re-purposed gadget from your aching hole.

 

“My best girl.” He lauded in a coo, pressing a complacent kiss to one of your (bottom) cheeks while your body sunk lower to the slab; as if to reclaim it from the trauma. You heard the faraway _clink_ as the forceps hit the steel tray but only he was privy to the coating of faeces and blood.

 

Your knees trembled under your own weight while you blinked back automatic tears of shock but even with the forceps removed, your body was still on a knife’s edge. Your elbows tremored under your head, the bones causing a very light but noticeable tinny chatter on the examination plate but he chose to ignore it. Instead, he was far more occupied with bending to appraise his handiwork; the irritated, swollen and blotchy ring of muscle that you relied on to rid yourself of your solid wastes though it had become temporarily limp from the recent intrusion.

 

 _“Good girl….”_ The soothing whisper caressed your inner ear, like a half-hearted request for forgiveness; so much so, that you felt yourself leaning towards the inquisitive prodding of your red-raw hole. For a window of no more than ten seconds, the physical contact ceased and you were briefly drawn to your carrion audience once more; their eyes remained closed and uninterested but their mere presence was thrilling, terrifying and wrong all at once. Each of those fed off each other to create the unique and indescribable feeling of what it was to be joined to Armitage Hux. The dead distracted you just long enough for him to reorganize himself; just long enough to ready himself and when those seconds came to a close, he marked them by finally giving in to temptation that had frayed itself into almost impatience.

 

Reshuffling yourself in a bid to iron out your malaise, your head lifted from your arms and in turn, your arms unfolded from the slab. Almost prideful, you had lifted yourself to your hands and knees with your chin elevated towards the ceiling but again, what occurred from behind took control.

 

 _“Ohhhhh……”_ Your head dropped immediately, almost to your chest as you were ripped from your incomplete recovery by a sudden and merciless entry from behind. The table shifted ever so slightly at the nudge from his knees to bury himself as deeply into your already opened orifice as possible; the slathering of lubricant had made it just about bearable. The relieved moan from behind as he accustomed himself with the familiar but slightly different (under the unusual circumstances of that particular day) sensation rung in the space that rarely saw excessive noise but after today, it would make up for lost time. A harsh grip of freshly de-gloved hands clamped your hips and yanked them back to fully sheath himself inside your back passage while your sopping cunt went unloved, save for the partial brush of his testicles against it.

 

Pelvis kneading on the meaty cheeks of your buttocks, his hips lifted and fell ever so slightly to test the movement, to ensure he’d cracked you wide enough but he found it satisfactory, even after a few testing wiggles to be absolutely sure. Safe in that positivity, an onslaught of heavy thrusts seemed to charge from nowhere; forcing himself in and withdrawing himself just as swiftly with heavy pants, only to repeat the process as if he had forgotten the damage of the forceps. Your hands barely supported the weight of your upper half while your knees splayed at an awkward angle to accommodate the full width of his body; it was gruelling, fraught and exhausting but you savoured every thrust in this unique adventure. Yet another fantasy successfully explored.

 

Every time he reached as far as he could, you could feel yourself salivating while you retreated to the most primitive corners of salacity and sexual iniquity. Or perhaps he fucked you stupid enough to lose control of your most basic functions; either way, you won. The slap of skin on skin resounded in high definition to the lifeless audience and even if they couldn’t hear it, it was music to your ears; needless to say, it was paired flawlessly with the creaking of the table and a chorus of noises that one would (at least hope to) never hear in a mortuary. Your alpha male claimed his mate again and again with little charity and even less signs of letting up any time soon, as if determined to put on a show for the departed.

 

 **“Aghhhh!! AAAGHHHH!!”** He sang for you, not in a beautiful or conventional way but in a way that he knew only you would appreciate, in a way that he knew only you wanted to hear. As if crying out in desperation, he pushed himself harder and faster until you joined him in that sordid opera and as pain melted into pleasure, you eventually fell into tune with him.

 

_“Fuck…..!”_

**_“Come for me, darling…. I-aghh! Come for me soon and I will be at your disposal tomorrow….”_** Had he been thinking about anything other than you, he probably would have been thinking about how he would be standing staunch over an operating table for six hours straight with throbbing knees. Or how time was running short and he was expected for the routine pre-surgery talk with his team in only a few moments time. Or how he would have trouble focusing on arguably one of the most complex procedures in the medical field after this particular encounter. But now, all he wanted and needed was you. You didn’t abide by his command straightaway, it was an impossibility. However, being subjected to wave after wave of barbarous thrusts to an oversensitive part would prompt you to unravel eventually and several minutes later, too many for either of your unhinged brains to count, you started to obey.

 

 _“Armitage!”_ Your keening whimper indicated the crumbling he craved to which he closed his eyes, kept his course and (if it was possible) spur himself on that little extra bit to hurl you both over your respective edges. It didn’t take long and while you both would have liked to prolong it, time was unfortunately of the essence.

 

 _“I’m coming, my love.”_ He promised in a ragged exhale while the thrashing assault on your asshole upped in the last few seconds of a wonderfully unrestrained fuck. _“Come with me, sweetheart…..”_ Hips rocketing, hearts thundering, genitals screaming, bodies sweating, lungs labouring and a smell other than disinfectant indicated that it would all be over soon, too soon. His knees started to buckle while his thrusts started to stutter, threatening to peter out and he would eventually have to succumb to that threat.

 

Finally, it happened. You didn’t feel the load that barrelled towards your rectum at an inconceivable speed but it embodied the very essence of his orgasm. You, on the other hand, were far too taken up with surviving your own symptoms of ultimate satisfaction. Between the struggle to breathe alone, the inability to open your eyes, the sting in your anus and the heartbeat in your womanhood, not to mention the prickling friction heat of the slab beneath you; you had enough to address. So incapacitated, spent and crumpled were you, that you scarcely felt the careful but firm hold that turned you from the human shells, onto your back where he folded on top you, cradled you and retrieved your lips with his.

 

 _“I love you.”_ The wavering and helpless murmur joined the u-turn in his demeanour as he became a different man to the one who had experimented on and dominated you; his lips kissed your jaw and your cheek while also stumbling over each other. _“I love you so, so much.”_

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Mr Solo.” He began with wavering patience and clawing irritation for the umpteenth time; it was like trying to reason with a child. While most people with their own office regarded it as a sanctuary, Armitage Hux did not share that sentiment. He rarely got peace in his so called “sanctuary”; usually between consultations like this one and unwanted visitors popping in. Worn out from both intercourse  and surgery and eager to return home to his beloved, his sufferance was beginning to dwindle with the argumentative prattling that ripped into every sentence he tried to construct. “If you won’t undergo surgery, there is little I can do for you. Bypasses are more common now, the survival rate is-“

 

“Survival rate!” The notoriously difficult patient spat back from across the desk and the surgeon began to think he was being paid too much to be saddled with consultations. A quadruple bypass wasn’t as big a deal as it used to be with the advances in modern medicine but some, like the abrupt and infamous American gangster sitting opposite him, felt themselves above “quackery” and so disregarded their own mortality. “Listen, sport!” And Armitage felt twelve again with the disdain of it showing plainly in his face. “I gotta die sometime! Gimme a steak, a bottle o’ Jack and a woman and let me fuck it out! I got an ex-wife who hates my guts, I got a son who changed his name and travels with a Goddamn band and my best friend hasn’t changed since the seventies so y’know what, Doc?! **I don’t care!!”** Behind the gruff façade, the seventy something seemed to have a plea propping up his words and Armitage could appreciate that he would want to choose his own method of death, however unorthodox it might be.

 

“Mr Solo.” Pale hands clasped and rested on the desk in front, Armitage’s mind was ticking over to the huff of an irritated American who hadn’t yet grasped an alternative was about to be offered. The redhead thought of the logistics of it; it wouldn’t be any different to anything either of you had done before, it would be consensual (for once) and would it really hurt to help someone? With a click of his tongue and a small **_thump_** as he dropped his pen (note-taking stopped there), he began to test the water. “How serious are you about that?”

 

“Pretty damn serious!” The grey mopped male scowled across the desk, assuming his doctor (whom he was paying exceptionally well) was undermining his wishes. “You can try an’ talk me outta it all you want but-!“

 

“I’m not going to talk you out of it.” Finally, the American was silent; whether he was stunned or just listening, Armitage didn’t really care but he was going to take full advantage of it. “Have you ever taken Viagra before, Mr Solo?” The implications of the question may have been crass but it was delivered maturely and business-like; naturally, it still managed to offend.

 

“Course I have!” The tirade resumed and Armitage reminded himself of patience; both for his and Han’s sake. “How else d’you think I-!”

 

“Perform, yes, I understand. Very good, that’s that established.” A moments thought had the gangster on edge while the younger man unravelled the intricacies in his brilliant mind. “I’m assuming you’ve only taken one, maybe two at a time?”

 

“Well, yeah but what’s that got to do with-?!”

 

“Excellent, I’d like to give you some more if you’re strong in your resolve of what you’ve told me.” More stunned silence so he powered on. “Your heart, despite its problems, is holding well and your suggestion is unlikely to deliver a fatal heart attack; in its current state, at least.” The look of incredulity prompted him to casually continue with this _very_ extreme advice. “Not to mention, it would aid with “fucking it out”, as you stated earlier but the principal use would be to weaken your heart.” Han leaned forward in his chair, face contorted in thought as the logic began to click into place.

 

“You sound like you gotta plan, Doc.”

 

“I do have a plan.” Leaning forward to mirror Han in a less formal position in a bid to gather trust, he already had the attention he needed with his hands still folded. “I would cease to be your doctor but I would insist on being present regardless. I might even take part if you were so inclined.” He took the benign shrug as an indication that so far, Han liked what he had to say. “For you see, she and I work together. We are one unit, we-“

 

“Your girlfriend?” The word alone provoked a scoff and tut that in turn, earned him a raised eyebrow.

 

“Girlfriends are for teenagers and non-committals, Mr Solo.” He replied boldly and without apology but with a ghost of condescension. “I do not have a girlfriend. What I have is far more than that; I have a partner. A creature of immense beauty and savagery, a predator whom I could not and would not live without. Very few experience what we have and I can assure you, if you’re serious in ending yourself the way you say you are, she and I are the ones to help you.” With seemingly no more left to say; Dr Hux plucked his pen from the table once more to the curiosity of his patient as he scribbled on a scrap of unheaded paper to hand over.

 

“That is my personal mobile phone number. When you are ready, call me and we will start setting things in motion. Good day, Mr Solo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like the idea of Hux as an easily corruptible priest, go and read Sins of the Father. I hear it’s good! Or as the bitch of a smuggler? Precious Cargo!


	6. Mercy Killing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Han Solo comes for dinner but stays for dessert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry about the delay!!  
> I do hope it's up to standard, I'm always worried that it's not which is why feedback is so important!!

 

 

As expected, the bed was empty when you woke that morning; you thought you might have had a few minutes with an exhausted, zombified surgeon before you went to work but alas, it was not to be. Your phone buzzed in a lecture just after lunchtime but you inherently ignored it, it was only a text anyway. However, in the momentary space of time between one lecture ending and the next beginning, you fished for your phone in the Mary Poppins-esque expanse of your handbag; typical of not being able to find something when time was short. Finally retrieved, the brief but welcome message made you smile.

 

_Dinner? I have a gift for you._

* * *

 

 

The Savoy had become sentimental, despite its expense. It was the go-to for a glass of wine, a meal or even a cup of coffee and an overpriced pastry on a Sunday afternoon; purely because of what it meant to the pair of you: the arena of the first meeting.

 

“You have a present for me?” Your chirp lifted the scarlet head from the menu as you passed behind him to sit down; as if he didn’t know the selection well enough by now. He stood for a split second, simply out of manners until you sat down and had he had warning of your arrival, no doubt your chair would have been swept out for you as well.

 

“Trust you to hone in on the materialistic aspect.” He chided roguishly as he leaned across the table to plant a peck to your expectant lips.

 

“Yes, I’m the materialistic one.” You retorted, returning the affection before your eyes heightened to heaven as he resumed his seat opposite you. “That’s why we are where we are.”

 

“I think I’m perfectly entitled to treat my better half. Particularly after the neglect of just fucking and running yesterday, I do apologize for that.” He poised the glass of water he’d poured as a boredom breaker while waiting at his lips, watching you intently over the rim of it. “Besides….” Mouth and throat moistened from the hydrating sip, he could negotiate the ‘gift’ a little more accurately. “It will benefit us both, what I have for you.”

 

You were no stranger to gifts; some extravagant, some simple but he knew by now (and had known it from somewhere into the middle of the first meeting) that you were not like the others. Gifts, money, prestige; none of it meant anything to you. You had a rare grasp of death and mortality to know that materialism was pointless and to some degree, crude. That didn’t stop you joking about it.

 

“That’s not a ring box, Armitage.” The bluntness cracked a smirk on your lover’s flawlessly freckled face as he handed over an almost plain, brown folder. You often wondered how much he liked his job and would prefer to keep it since the blatant, red print of **CONFIDENTIAL** branded across it suggested otherwise. Then again, Armitage Hux, the brilliant surgeon was untouchable and should (in the preposterous event) he lose his job, you had no doubt he would have no trouble in finding another.

 

“Trust me, my darling.” That ominous drawl summoned your attention from the open but otherwise unheeded folder; temporarily, of course. “When, not if, _when_ I pledge the rest of my life to you; it won’t be some pathetic and overdone display in a restaurant-“ Fixated on each other, this talk was not uncommon but the intensity never wavered with its regularity; so much so that Thanisson was ignored when he placed a basket of unjustifiably expensive bread in between you. “It will be a far more appropriate and intimate affair, tailored to us and only us; that, I promise you.”

 

You let the intensity linger, to let it subside on its own felt more natural so one waited for the other to look away first. You conceded under that cold, longing stare; your nonchalance frustrating him somewhat as you fingered the pages of the file.

 

“Han Solo....” You hummed melodically, scanning the information presented in the forbidden folder while his back straightened expectantly. “72 years of age...” The wine had been poured without your notice and this time he watched you over the rim of a different class as a deep, rare vintage was savoured. “Is this who I think it is?”

 

“That depends on who you think it is.” Trust his immediate post-work persona for that trademark arrogance but you let it slide due to the intrigue the file had inspired.

 

“The gangster.” You replied, submerged, without looking up; more complacent to scan the information while potential situations unravelled themselves. “They call him The Smuggler.” How did he classify this as a gift though? You had discussed your _unusual_ hobby, one he matched you in body count and the idea of a joint _venture_ had also been established for the future but those victims all had one thing in common: they were unwilling and taken by surprise. “I don’t understand, why this one? He’s not even terminally ill.”

 

“I had a consultation with him directly after surgery this morning.” He explained, eyes flickering to the medical history in your hands; just as engrossed as you, as if he had memorized each word and was still fascinated by them. “He has tired of life and told me, in no uncertain terms, that he plans on ending it; despite his health being quite good given his lifestyle.” He paused to take a generous swig of the wine as if it was nothing more than water. “I told him to consider it meticulously and to contact me if he wished to proceed; he called me little more than an hour after he left my office.” Thanisson approached the table for a second time where a rushed order of the usual was given and you waited to hear more about the infamous ‘Smuggler’. Hux’s eyes closed momentarily and a spider-like hand stretched from his chin to his temple to caress his face; the brief snatch of rest he’d had clearly not enough. “His initial plan was, and I quote: “Gimme a steak, a bottle o’ Jack and a woman and let me fuck it out.” You saw his chart. His heart is too strong for that, he would exhaust himself at the absolute worst; he needs intervention and I propose it is us that grants it.”

 

“Intervention?” You pressed, still unsure.

 

“I suggested an overdose of Viagra.” He elaborated, careful to keep his voice low. “It will maintain his erection but most importantly, weaken his heart. Prolonged sexual activity should induce a fatal heart attack; if you’re comfortable with that, of course. I just felt it would be a suitable beginning in a controlled environment; if it doesn’t go to plan, there are plenty of other ways to dispose of him.”

 

“That would mean sharing me.” You taunted in jest with that provocative smirk but that too had been discussed before and accepted on both sides; sex was part of the hunt. “With an old man, nonetheless.”

 

“And you.” He countered flawlessly that provoked a kink of your eyebrow. Oh? He toyed with your curiosity a little longer, all the while smugly delighted that he had you in suspense. Eventually, he bowed to your scrutiny. “Initially, I told him I would need to be present to ensure all is progressing as it should.” He took another slow, antagonizing sip of wine to remind you that you were at his mercy. “I also told him I might become involved if it was preferable and when he called me not too long ago….. He confirmed it. So you too, my darling, will be sharing.” Taken aback in the most wonderful way, your titter stretched his glee and his silky, subsequent chuckle massaged it.

 

“And when is this next big adventure going to take place?”

 

“I told him Friday.” Armitage declared absentmindedly as choosing a piece of bread took precedent over your macabre antics but only very briefly. “Around seven and I gave him my address.”

 

“Well then…..” Surfaced from the bread basket, your movement caught his eye and so, his glass raised to join yours. “To Friday.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Friday came and an abundance of Jack Daniel’s whiskey and fillet mignon steaks came with it. And why not? Why not make The Smuggler’s last night a good one? Why not start yours and Armitage’s new, shared undertaking off with a bang? Marking the occasion was important, not so much for the fortunate and unfortunate man on his way but for you as a couple heading into a new chapter; however morbid. Showered, powdered, made up and dressed in your most flattering; Armitage was every bit as impressive but it wasn’t your flame-haired soulmate that the gangster had come to see. Not really.

 

An attractive man even for his age, Han Solo had made a similar effort, applying the same logic as yourself; a last night should be subject to every strive and detail imaginable. Dressed well, confident and at ease, the elder paid you extra special attention throughout the evening but managing to engage with Armitage as well; a habit of placation to stay out of trouble in his usual business dealings, you assumed. Or perhaps simply out of courtesy unlike his “rough diamond” exterior suggested.

 

Conversation was polite, dinner was excellent (if you did say so yourself), the atmosphere was relaxed; one could be forgiven for not foreseeing a murder/suicide was about to unfold and in the most depraved of ways. Just for that night, you and Armitage exchanged your trademark bottle of red wine (that usually extended into two or three between you) to join your _guest_ in his specification of Jack Daniels; an exchange you weren’t too displeased with. However, one part of the promise was fulfilled; the steak was being digested but the Jack would continue to flow for now. As a matter of fact, it would play a key role but the smuggler only realized that when Armitage dutifully began to clear away the plates and he was temporarily left to your leniency.

 

Sliding smoothly into the aged lap, his reaction was somewhat delayed; as if in disbelief or he'd forgotten what he'd come for but you were welcomed eventually with a look of dawning realization. Ever so softly, ever so gently, your lips brushed his in a hint; a hint that didn't require much else. You soon became joined at the mouth in a far more purposeful way than mere pecks or skims. That too would have its intention.

 

The taste of Jack was potent but you were sure he could say the same for you. Obviously a smoker, the subtle tang of tobacco complimented the recent flavour of medium steak and making it an overall pleasant experience that (if you were truthful) had you somewhat but needlessly apprehensive. No doubt adept in the art of seduction in his many years, he knew exactly how straddle you in his lap, how to breathe in unison in between the sticking and unsticking and of course, how to inch you closer to maximize the physicality. Very much in tune and comfort with each other, one melted into the other; as lovers, familiar and unfamiliar, should.

 

Even more pleasing than the tastes and the smells of the rugged and earthy smuggler was the sweeping of a worn hand under your skirt and the pleasing tingle of teasing between your legs. Your first (of many) moans alerted your partner in both life and crime.

 

Armitage skulked from the kitchen though too absorbed in Han, you didn’t really notice nor did you take heed of the container he held. Open-mouthed, wet and hot; the kisses progressed as they should have in the inevitable, erotic climb and aided by the tinkering that now focused on your clit. Somewhere in your hazy, peripheral vision; the glance of a cardinal head leaning attentively on the table beside you assured you of the company though you’d hardly missed him. Somehow, instead of it being the two of you, he managed to impose his presence without physically doing so to make it three but he still remained somewhat removed.

 

The first pill found your tongue and the instinct was to pass it over; once it reached Han’s tongue from yours, Armitage lifted the glass of Jack to the lips of the gangster to wash it down. The process was repeated umpteen times until the little jar was empty and the air of expectation in the dining room stung with certainty. When it seemed the atmosphere could take no more, it was time to move.

 

* * *

 

 

You don’t remember how you got to the bedroom; everything was a blissful flurry of undressing, staggering and a desperate need to find the bed. With Armitage settled in the specially placed armchair beside the bed, he was complacent in watching your head bob up and down in the suicidal’s lap.

 

 _“Ohhhh….. Atta girl….”_ The American praise sent a ripple of pride as you tended to the overly-veined length. Sitting up on the balls of his feet and his knees supporting him, Han had already begun to feel light headed but that didn’t stop him threading his hands through your hair or lightly thrusting to the back of your throat. Similarly, your knees kept you propped but your feet stuck out flat behind you, pointing to the bedroom door; it was a more comfortable way of folding yourself almost in two to get into the cranny between his legs and held you just right to angle his cock to your oesophagus. Armitage watched from the bedside; fully dressed and with no signs of self-pleasure, he remained vigilant for signals of distress or faltering from the victim but thus far, Han presented none.

 

Slurping, groaning and the odd choke was the usual symphony associated with your willingly-undertaken act and now was no different. The way your eyes heightened to approval every minute or so thrilled you and spurred you on to keep your head moving and your gag reflex primed, despite how he tested it. The extra encouragement of the stuttered gasp as your hand cupped beneath his testicles and kneaded them was music to your ears; naturally, you were both happy to continue but Armitage had other ideas.

 

“I think we’ve established that he’s hard.” The drone from beside the bed reminded you and Han that you had company. Relinquishing the saliva-coated appendage, you raised yourself slightly and waited until the direct, concise and very much to the point instruction was delivered. “Fuck her.”

 

Your knees didn’t get a break. They braced you as the full weight of your body was divided between them and your elbows though your knees took most of the strain. Your back at a clean slant, your arms folded beneath your chin and your gaping, sodden hole ready and presented, Han could not resist and primal urge (unaffected by age) took over. Having fallen into sync with him since gracing the bedroom, it was almost a relief to be physically joined to your guest again as he forced his way in from behind without the quibble of a condom but obeying his biological whims.

 

Fully sheathed and making sure of it by sandwiching his chest to your back, Han wanted to ensure maximum depth and performance if this was going to be his last time indulging in one of his favourite pastimes. The initial thrusts were slow and a means of setting a pace but it wasn’t long before he found a rhythm and fell into step with it. With his nearly-retired scrotum swinging from his impels and tapping with increasing vigour against your labia, such graft would deliver a heart attack in no time. The coping, stuttering gasps coiled around your ear while the occasional press of whiskey-soaked lips to your cheek, temple or neck gifted a more intimate approach but of course that context would be lost from the angle of Armitage’s phone camera; from there, it merely resembled an old dog taking a young bitch.

 

Your pleasured whines joined the more masculine growls emanating from behind; each increasing as the seconds ticked over into minutes. Eyes shut in sheer trance as the feeling of engulfment and ejection wore away at your nerves and the slight protest of the bedsprings became background noise, neither of you saw the voyeur undress. In fact, it wasn’t until you felt the third weight sag the mattress that your eyes opened and the shining pale of a naked Armitage Hux greeted you; in response, Han leaned off your back to face his doctor but never once did his methods falter.

 

It was there in front of you, so why not? Han behind, Armitage in front and two different cocks in two different holes, your mouth had felt somewhat empty but trust your beloved to rectify that for you. Like The Smuggler had, the redhead’s spindly, white hand curled into your hair and used it as leverage to push and pull your head over his shaft to the glorious chime of your delirious whimpers; the phone recorded another few token minutes. He was always cruel in how his pelvis drove directly to the back of your throat; as if to hear you gag and choke riled him but you knew him and his sadistic nature well enough to know that it did. The grunts as he fucked your skull with the lengthening and unladylike string of consequential saliva and pre-cum goaded him on while Han pummelled from behind with his own ecstatic orchestra.  

 

 

You took no notice when the two became muffled; with overwhelming stimulation from either end, your concern was holding off your orgasm for a little while longer. Suddenly, you were empty again; each orifice vacated without warning. Confused, abandoned and turned onto your buttocks, the desertion of your body was in favour of each other. Shuffling and meeting at the halfway point on the bed beside your abdomen, doctor and patient united in an oral embrace that would scandalize any medical propriety enforcement board. The clinch was similar to the one at the dining table; the way they clutched each other, the way suggestive touches roamed freely and one mouth fed the other as if the antidote to a poison lay under the other’s tongue.

 

Temporarily forgotten, you simply watched as Armitage had done and waited. Their touches got bolder until the grasp of a cock, one older and the other younger but matched to an opposite hand, was mutual. You had provided the lubricant for their side-dalliance and surveyed it contentedly without jealousy as fists formed and your work allowed the gliding to happen unhindered. The reciprocal rolling of hips into their receiving hands and the extended war of lips made for tantalizing viewing; having never seen Armitage in that light before, it enforced how dedicated he was to the kill, much like yourself. Although there was a purpose to it. How else was he supposed to monitor vitals without killing the mood? Why not measure his heart rate with his own, chest to chest? Why not track his breathing with his tongue crammed back his throat? Why not note the lasting effect of the Viagra by cupping his cock with his own hand? Method to the madness but enjoyable all the same that gave you time to claw yourself back from the brink.

 

As quickly as you’d thought it, they separated with a taint of hesitation and the fist-fucking dwindled into nothing. It seemed unspoken what would happen next as Han lumbered to the top of the bed, sitting upright with his back settled to the pillows but not without draining the glass of Jack. Armitage followed, lounging in a similar position with only a breath between them and that was your cue. Knees bent, he created a perfect seat which he helped you clamber into; a plush bed was not ideal when trying to negotiate balance but the aid meant you conquered it without embarrassment. It took some adjusting but once you quietened in his lap for the second time and the necessary organ was aligned with the appropriate one, you started off again under Armitage’s watchful and professional eye.

 

His hips rose to meet yours, proficient and nimble as every thrust brought you both nearer but to two different things. The fucking and the panting got heavier; you were drawn closer to his chest as something to hold while your cunt swallowed him and spat him out again in rapid succession that only seemed to get faster, more aggressive and covetous.

 

_“Ahhhhh…..”_

**_“Fuck!”_ **

****

The slap of skin on skin and the obscene squelching of bodily fluids rushed to join your keening laments and the arduous snarls from beneath you; not to mention the white noise of bedsprings.

 

_“Oh my God!”_

**_“I’m goin’ to hell for this!”_ **

****

It became bruising and it became painful but such power and exertion were necessary if he was to work himself into such a frenzy that a fatal heart attack would ultimately claim him. With his heart already weakened by the medication, the battle was half won but total victory would only come when he lay limp save for one part. Han had handed himself over to pure, unadulterated carnality and a quick glance at Armitage assured you this would not take much longer; in fact, that glance and the purple faced puffing of your one-time lover stirred the thrill of the kill in your stomach. Your loins ached and your vocal chords stretched as the propels hit their peak and plateaued but the strength behind them prevailed.

 

 ** _“Aaaghhhh.....!! God!!”_** The vocalisms swayed the conviction of a lethal orgasm and soon.

 

“Keep going, darling.” Armitage encouraged nonchalantly from the side, pleased with the progress even if Han was struggling to breathe but his lower quarters were on autopilot and carrying on ahead without him. “Almost there.” Your own core was on the verge of snapping while your entire body teetered on a knives edge of coming and not but you persevered with the resolve of waiting until Han went first. With the elder’s wrist clasped between icicle-like fingers, Armitage kept time with the pulse as if it was nothing out of the ordinary and this was little more than standard procedure.

 

It wasn’t unusual for one’s partner to stiffen, cry out or choke in the sudden grip of an orgasm, nor was it strange for their head to roll on the pillow, their eyes to flicker or their lips to flutter as they succumbed to absolute pleasure and their body bowed to recovery eventually. What was unusual, however, was when they didn’t rally from those symptoms. To Han’s credit; his attention never wavered, his movements never stalled and he gave it his absolute all to secure your satisfaction as well as his own all the way through. Until now. His movements didn’t peter out or stutter to a halt; there was one final, savage plunge and a deposition of benign genetic material while Armitage oversaw the pulse (or lack of it), bemused.

 

The twitches would have disturbed anyone else; particularly while they were still inside you and grating on your inner walls without the conscious drivings of Han Solo. The smell of soiled sheets (and not just that of intercourse, sweat and sexual fluids) and a cooling corpse flooded back _wonderful_ memories but enhanced now by the arms that helped you out of the midst of death and into a fresh, unaffected embrace. Another set of lips had intervened since yours and Armitage’s had last met but the envelop was untainted and excitement still distinguishable amidst the gratification and success of this new covenant; a new way for your sick souls to intertwine further if that was even possible.

 

A revolutionary bane to the unsuspecting loners on the street, in the pubs and on the dating apps; you and Armitage had taken your first steps into being the new obsession of idle prattle, the new urban myth. He held you like he always did, kissed you like he always and caressed you like he always did; like the most precious thing in the world, despite the corpse that had already left some _staining_. Nuzzling and close, only then did he possesively utter the words that would make the experience complete and give it the branding of unity you craved while hungry eyes bored into yours.

 

_“My turn.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do review and I hope you enjoyed the first (of many!) threesomes!


	7. The Bathories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Armitage attend Han Solo's funeral. 
> 
> A few days later, his son turns up on Tinder, looking for somewhere to put his grief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY THIS IS SO LATE!!!!!!

It was done. Those news steps had been taken to a new addiction; a joint compulsion and while the victim had been consenting, the next one would not be. That would be the true thrill, the sick kick that had made it appealing all along to both of you separately and now, together…. The combined experience, knowledge and drive would make you as a pair unstoppable.

 

Loyally, Tinder had been deleted somewhere after Armitage’s first taste of blood, when you both realized that to continue with it was (at the time) a mere distraction from the feast of debauchery you fed each other. Hindsight is always 20/20, however and if you had known then what you knew now, well…. Deleting it may have been a bit premature. Thankfully, that was easily remedied.

 

But in the meantime, you had a funeral to attend.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Who has two funerals? One on one side of the planet and the second on the other? The answer is a notorious American gangster who ran successful (and, apparently) community-binding operations on both. It shouldn’t matter that those communities consisted of undesirables, one-night stands (or slightly more) and business men of similar interests to the fondly remembered smuggler. _Fondly remembered is right._

 

Boldly, blatantly and gallingly; you and Armitage arrived together in the traditional black to join the mourning party. Hand in hand, you strolled past the rows of weeping mistresses and the hushed conversations of urgency of what to do in the wake of Han’s sudden passing; knowing your stay would be brief. Your other half scarcely kept his air of satisfaction in check while you managed to maintain the considerate sombre demeanour that came with such an event.

 

 _“He’s being flown by private jet back to the States.”_ Armitage enlightened you softly, leaning to the side to minimize the height difference during your approach of the open coffin at the top of the chapel. _“Imagine that: flying in splendour and not even being alive to appreciate it.”_

_“And when was the last time you flew anywhere in economy?!”_ You hissed back, much to his restrained amusement; until, of course, you reached the top. There he was. Albeit somewhat _lighter_ than on that fateful night (Armitage had informed you since that Han was an organ donor though what could be used was debatable), he looked more or less the same; save for the funeral home brand of make-over and the expected effects of embalming.

 

Naturally, he only had the best ill-gotten money could buy. As if the pristine ebony, silk-lined coffin wasn’t enough, the flowers guarding him (and assaulting the nasal cavity of anyone who neared) came from the most exotic reaches of the world; to even attempt to pronounce their names would have been a wounding insult to wherever they came from. The funeral car waiting outside beside the gilded hearse came from one of the most opulent lines; built for comfort, not speed or so they say. It was a display of lavishness and wealth; a reflection of his life, no doubt and why shouldn’t it see him into death? Why shouldn’t he bathe in extravagance one last time? Until his second funeral in the States, at least, where the luxury would likely continue.

 

As you studied the waxy face, it was impossible not to recall the last time you’d seen it; the incident that permitted you to see him on the borderline of life and death and tip him over the edge. Like a snake, you felt Armitage’s hand coil and tighten on yours, it seemed your partner was reliving it too in vivid detail. What might have appeared to be comforting gesture from afar, the gentle kiss to the temple was a signal: _“Let’s get out of here….”_

Nodding silently with an expert quiver of the lip, you turned and led your lover not to the car, but to the vestry for a quick fuck.

 

* * *

 

 

Weary and tired from yet another surgery, Armitage retrieved his phone from the locker outside the theatre. He had a missed call from you, from two and half hours previous; something to do with what to order to ease his protesting stomach, he assumed. That misconception, however, was cleared up when he opened the accompanying message that chilled him with delight to his very core.

****

**_Found one._ **

 

* * *

 

 

Kylo Ren was a _beautiful_ creature. Disturbed, neglected and strange but _beautiful._ The connection of names was not made when the initial hook of his Tinder profile slid onto your screen with the previous one being sparingly swept left.

 

 _Kylo Ren...._ A self-possessed young man with a strong stance, at least that was what you could gather from the first image; atop a stage, roughly serenading a crowd with a guitar strapped to his torso. Dark hair, pale skin and prominent features ironed with pain reeled you in; confidence with susceptibility bubbling beneath could easily be dismantled. Without question, you swiped right and the confirmative _ding!_ sang to grant you access to the next step of “courtship”: The message.

 

Remarkably, while halfway through typing your (more eloquent) message, his erupted into your inbox; an invitation to see him perform in the city. Wonderfully taken aback, your message was erased then re-typed accordingly while your head shook and your chest ruffled with an astonished laugh. _The vanity!_

 

He was direct and to the point: He was not interested in dating, despite finding him on a dating app. He travelled with his group (The Knights of Ren) and fucked as he went; a harem in every port, so to speak. _Perfect._ The message (unbeknownst to you) was more solemn in tone than how he usually typed; the recent passing of his father in _very_ strange circumstances had affected him more than he thought it would. The additional inconvenience of the delay in funeral arrangements (and learning of his father’s death in the first place) led to him being too late for the funeral in London and therefore missing the one in the States while in London; he needed somewhere to put his pain.

 

What was your fascination with Americans? First poor Poe, then Han and now this unfortunate creature; among others. Maybe it was the accent, the swagger or just a general fondness for foreigners but your main man, the one you received your life blood from, was thorough English.

 

There was a reason you never frequented clubs, both before and after you’d met Armitage; the air was stale, the crowd was raucous, and you could practically taste the perspiration of all those strangers sandwiched together. The gig began and ended; heavy, screaming and loud but patiently you waited, just off the stage for the gracious presence of your lead man. God, he was magnificent when he emerged. Hair slicked with sweat, face red from exertion and lungs drained from effort; more or less how you expected him to be later. There were no introductions, just the immediate fullness of an extra tongue in your mouth; naturally, you responded with the same enthusiasm.

 

_“Yours or mine?”_

The answer was obvious for reasons he wouldn’t want to know.

 

_“Mine.”_

* * *

 

You got as far as the living room before he stumbled into an armchair and took you with him. Somewhere in the flurry of saliva exchange and the partial removal of clothes, you found yourself in his lap while he fucked your fist, aided with a strip of juice you’d scraped from your own sopping cunt. There was no sign of Armitage yet but your panties on the floor just inside the door would tell him all he needed to know.

 

 _“Ohhhhh…..”_ The cock of average length and width (probably to the disappointment of some groupies, given his prowess on stage) bobbed up and down behind the closed security of your fingers though he only seemed to have eyes for the cleavage he had half unbuttoned before him. _“Holy shit….”_ He hissed again as you added a tidy glob of spit to lubricate him further. _“Oh my fucking God, I really wanna fuck you….”_ And those were the magic words.

 

* * *

 

 

You took the to bed first to dictate the position, to have you on your back slotted best into the plan and you doubted he’d protest; not with the way he sang from a simple wank. He followed suit without much persuasion and hunger burning in those dark brown eyes when he descended to taste a new taste.

 

Tenderness was not an expectation; nor was gentility or consideration, but you expected _something_ …. Competence, perhaps? The first encounter in the club, of his tongue invading your mouth immediately, that was easily calculated with the nature of the meeting and how said meeting had come about but…. Were you wrong to assume that he would become more _adept_ as the evening wore on? Seemingly, yes.

 

He disrobed in a hurry, with a twinge of desperation; as if to impose himself before you could change your mind, like had happened before. Various garments of seemingly endless black littered the floor at the side of the bed; the final stage of preparation before he descended on you.

 

His ineptitude mounted; continuing to pluck at your almost disbelief when he completely disregarded the need, or even courtesy, of foreplay. The barest minimum had been at your expense in the arm chair in the living room; a “welcome wank”, if you will and not a single inkling of reciprocation. It appeared he deemed it unnecessary and chose to cater to his own desires rather than the combined effort that made fornication of any capacity worthwhile to both parties. Was it too severe to imagine his death already? Wasn’t that only the second half of the pleasure? You had no idea what Armitage was going to do (where was he anyway?), but it couldn’t come fast enough. Kylo Ren though…. You were sure he’d come fast enough.

 

He was rough in how he took you; not rough in terms of kink or giving over to carnality, it felt more like he had never learned properly and took what he knew from pornography. It made you dismiss your initial assessment of “a harem in every port” and cemented your growing suspicions of inability. How many of those were repeat lovers and how many of those he had to seek out on a single-use basis when previous lovers wouldn’t entertain him a second time; it was pitiful, really. Tinder, it seemed, was his last and only hope and you were as much a victim as he was, though significantly less sinister.

 

Open mouthed, eyes shut, torso arched back as if afraid of excessive touch; it was more or less as expected. As you lay there as a selfish pleasure object, you had to wonder: Was he terrible at this because he was selfish, with the need to satisfy no one but himself and therefore not give a toss about his performance? _Or…._ Was he terrible anyway, knew it, didn’t care and not about to start trying? Either way, you stared at the ceiling over his shoulder and cursed your choice in conquest this time around.

 

Rhythm-less bucks repeatedly jolted your pelvis, as if trying to fuck underserved interest into you. Angled wrong, aimed wrong and with no inclination to adopt a pace, it was already tedious; a miserable few minutes in. The heavy panting dumped on your face, in swifter than usual intervals. Alcohol (free drinks were no doubt a perk of performing and availed of in gluttony), cigarette smoke and weed had blended into a sickening combination, not to mention whatever vile food he’d consumed; a combination he shared with you gladly.

 

 _Definitely not one of my finer acquisitions…_ You conceded bitterly but no more than a moment after that damning and self-scathing thought; your prayers were answered in the sharp _snap_ of the front door closing. Ren leaned back in curiosity; forehead creased and eyes trained on the door but his pummels continued. The scar ironed into his face, that dripped down onto his chest, flexed as he marked the bedroom door and waited shamelessly for an adversary to appear. When said adversary did appear (and very placidly, you might add), Ren stared him down, brazen; as if posing a challenge by not relinquishing Armitage’s woman when caught. What the raven locked beauty didn’t expect, was for the redhead to cross the room, perch himself on the bed beside you, kiss your forehead and watch serenely for a moment.

 

“Who the fuck is this?!” Ren spat, as if disappointed when his challenged wasn’t met; as if Armitage couldn’t speak for himself. The disappointment gradually morphed into being uncomfortably taken aback when it seemed the redhead was perfectly happy to come home and see his companion in bed with someone else; _what the fuck is wrong with these people?!_

_“This is my partner.”_ You imparted, submerged in Armitage’s doting instead; apparently forgetting about the activity that was supposed to be mindblowing. _“Armitage.”_ As if it was a cue, some secret signal; your other half stood and started to undress. Discomfort climbing and knowing he was close to finishing anyway, Ben protested; his own insecurity roused when your attention refocused on the new arrival and left him in the cold, despite his efforts.

 

“I didn’t sign up for a dude!”

 

 _“Yes, well… I didn’t sign up for some half-hearted tickle.”_ Looking past the incensed male to the more tranquil one who was in the process of lubing himself up, you knew that tranquillity would change with one wrong word or action. Ren provided that provocation when he forced you down further into the mattress out of temper. 

 

Armitage was tall but he was scrawny, probably underweight for his height; despite eating the best food and drinking the finest wines to a degree that could only be described as hedonistic. Not that that was the only hedonistic thing about Armitage Hux. He wasn’t muscular by any stretch of the imagination, nor did he hold any qualities that indicated physical strength; aside, maybe, from restraining the odd struggling victim, he was quite dexterous in that. But when the victim was a male of his own size and with a bodily condition that surpassed his own, it called for something more when it came to submission.

 

 **“HEY!!”** Panic. **“THE FUCK YOU DOIN’?!”** Not you. Of course, not you. With one male still buried between your open but bent knees, the other rooted himself in _that_ male without exertion or consent. With the element of surprise the first thing to be engaged, and taking full advantage of Ren’s position; the frontman was stretched from behind. He did struggle but the lover-like hold you had on his arms and your terror-inducing cackle enflamed the situation; only for Armitage to take control again.

 

 _“Quiet.”_ It wasn’t the intimate growl in Kylo Ren’s ear, allowed by the approximation of Armitage’s cock being firmly swallowed between Ren’s arsecheeks, that cooled his thrashing. Rather, the de-holstered knife, usually strapped to the underside of the bed, pressing suggestively into the soft flesh of his left kidney. Ren swallowed, his entire air melting from dictation and thunder to utter dread and fear; and you savoured every micro expression from below. As if violation wasn’t bad enough, the threat or bloodshed joined it to make Ren regret _everything_ about this night in an instant. _“Keep going.”_

Under duress, he did. And only now, out of trepidation, did any effort take the shape of actually trying to pleasure; the logic was sound, if he performed, he might be released. Armitage, who was only somewhat accustomed to the encasement of another man’s rectum around his erection, rolled his hips to the accidental whinnies of anal stimulation; Ren clearly as unaccustomed.

 

Rhythm and pace developed between the three of you; Ren bucked, Armitage fed him and then they retracted in unison to fuck forward together again. Somewhere in the brief encounter (Ren being almost spent), it didn’t feel like a forced venture. The knife lay abandoned on the sheets while an alabaster arm enveloped Ren’s waist to hold him steady and receive to the maximum ecstasy; and maximum ecstasy Ren received with no qualms in showing it. The immersive pressing and hoovering of pallid lips to a thick neck from behind caused the ebony head to roll and dark eyes to flicker.

 

The very sight of it was titillating, the sensation magnificent and the encroaching crescendo, _explosive._

_“Cum in her.”_ Armitage warned, supporting the wilting rocker more as his energy began to wane on the cusp of orgasm from double kindling and the redhead did not let up either. _“Or I’ll spill your guts all over her.”_ Temporary, if captive, bliss overhauled itself again into a nightmare and Ren’s eyes opened once more when the pressure was applied. The knife had been found and this time prodded gently at the flesh of his abdomen with every fuck forward Armitage delivered.

 

Alarm piquing and anxiety bordering on hysteria, Ren powered on until he could naturally do as he was commanded; though he did fear his body would fail him for the stress. Thankfully (or maybe that was a premature assessment), the nervous wreck felt that spurt and final wave of euphoria to accompany the orgasm. It was the third last thing he felt.

 

Looking to you for approval, he saw, exhausted and dismayed, that you looked past him; then the jolt, the second last thing. The swift, elegant slice of one, flawless movement jarred his senses for a moment and a split-second of confusion when he couldn’t place the pain in his stomach; the last thing. The previous two things were quick; the last, not so much. The jumbling of his senses manufactured a glitch in his vision, like the gushing of scarlet on white shouldn’t have caused him any concern or consternation. Dumbly, he looked down and then, as if a step was skipped, collided sideways with the bed with a **thump** ; ballooning intestines and gore spilling loose as he did.

 

You were a _vision._ Sexually fulfilled or not, it didn’t matter but the promised coating of hot crimson caressing your naked body and spattered on your face forced Armitage to take a deep breath. Dislodging himself from the quivering form of Kylo Ren, whose entrails continued to leak, he crawled slowly on his knees until they flanked your chest and lowered himself just enough to scrape his cock through the blood. Strings of shit and semen blended the perfection but by no means disrupted it; only adding to the depravity of the whole experience.

 

 _“Look at you…”_ That awe-struck sigh and unwavering gaze of lust and devotion lit your senses all over again; not that Kylo Ren had flinted any sort of spark. Lightly, his hips pushed and stroked him through the macabre body-paint; lubricating himself in the abundance of life-force that no longer belonged to the original owner. _“My God, whoever thought of bringing us together must have wanted to wreak havoc upon the world…”_ He ceased his slidings then sank to taste the salty offering Ren’s death had left on your lips. _“And they succeeded.”_

 

Enough wasted with a wannabe, Armitage took over to make up for lost time, slicked in blood. His pace, his rhythm, his dictation; all perfect after the monotonous, cumbersome imposing of Ren. Soon, you were both covered; bodies collecting every little globule as you rolled, flailed and fought for dominance. Too coagulated to soak completely into the bed linen, the sheet of ichor settled on the material in a puddle and squelched beneath you as forms writhed; adding a second gruesome skin to the one already exposed.

 

Armitage dived for your stained chest, suckling at tumescent nipples as if their layer of blood were mother’s milk and tongue dragging the surrounding area like the Fountain of Youth itself. Arms tight at his shoulders and hips moving to meet his at a crushing pace, it wouldn’t last much longer; half intercourse with another partner meant the climax didn’t need much pushing.

 

 _“Cum in me….”_ He loved that plead, the whine for more bodily fluids to flow, to join the blood inside and out.

 

 _“I may have already left some in your friend, darling….”_ He puffed but kept true. _“But believe me, my love, I’ll do my utmost for you…..”_ And he did.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do review!


	8. Sugar Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armitage finally brings home the sugar baby he's been luring into a false sense of security. He mentioned a gift but surely, she's the gift?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry about the delay it took to update this! I've been in a bit of a slump but hopefully, it's over! Do enjoy!

Students have a reputation for being _financially challenged._

 

Be they a student of the arts, law, medicine and everything in between; the courses differed vastly but the monetary struggle seemed to be a common ground amongst them. Some handled it better than others; some chose to live in abject poverty rather than work, some juggled two or three jobs to pay for tuition. Then…. there were the ones who chose to hover somewhere in the middle.

 

Like Rey.

 

 _“Easy money.”_ She called it. _“Don’t have to do anything.”_ She declared to whoever would listen. _“Just turn up, look pretty, act interested.”_ She’d had a few of those _courtships,_ older men with money, looking for nothing but the company of a pure young woman. It was a survival skill; take what you can and give nothing back, something she had learned the hard way and perfected as an abandoned child with good looks and a bewitching charm.

 

Street-smart and all as young Rey claimed to be, there still lurked a certain naivety that she had never even thought of to address.  The rules were clear; everything was on _her_ terms and those rules were strict, those she saw knew it. What Rey failed to understand, however, was that while most individuals would respect the rules out of simple humanity; there was a select one or two whose depths of depravity did not allow for rules.

 

Particularly when a far _rarer_ thing had already been paid for.

 

* * *

 

 

“Has she bitten yet?”

 

The fire warmed you from a distance while Millicent cozied to your side and heated that patch as well. Coat on, Armitage checked himself in the hall mirror and indulged in some last-minute preening. Dropping your book into the crevice of your crossed legs but keeping your thumb wedged to mark your page, you lazily watched the display of vanity and waited; wondering had he even heard you at all.

 

“Not yet. Almost.” It speaks! Without looking away from the mirror, of course.

 

“Not yet?!” You repeated, playfully incredulous, that prompted him to sweep away from his own reflection and descend on you instead. “Losing your touch, my love?!”

 

“Not quite.” He assured, bending to claim your lips with his; you responded like you always did, to tilt back your head and accept them. As ever, his eyes burned with the longing that you _knew_ only you could inspire. “I’m just trying to be gentle.”

 

“I didn’t realize such a word was in your vocabulary, darling.” He stared, like he always stared; like he never stared at anyone else and it was damn near impossible to know what was going through his head. “Off you go. Don’t be long and don’t come home without a chaperone.”

 

* * *

 

 

He didn’t.

Come home without a chaperone, that is.

 

The book held your attention for another few hours and it continued to do so, right up to when you had settled in bed; all cosy and snug. Until you heard the reverberation of the front door opening and closing in the hallway, of course. Listening intently, you needed to establish if he’d brought a companion home or not and after some careful eavesdropping and the registering of _two_ voices, it seemed he had.

 

* * *

 

 

Rey was a slight, slip of a creature; delicate and dainty with an air of (superficial?) confidence that, in the right light, could blow like a puff of smoke. That light happened to be the bedroom lamp when she entered in Armitage’s wake and discovered you sitting up in bed; the swagger evaporated. This strange situation, a very unexpected one for her but a very normal one for the two of you.

 

Wide-eyed and flabbergasted, Rey stared as Armitage left her at the bedroom door and approached the bed to adoringly plant his lips to yours; the usual. Had he really brought her to a marital (?) bed? With his (presumed) wife already in it? Why were you not losing your nerve with rage? Did you both realize she was there, encroaching on ordinary domesticity? Confusion creased Rey’s brow and hazel eyes shifted from one to the other; had she become a fly on the wall and no one realized, herself included?

 

When she found a break in her perplexity, Rey noticed that she was suddenly the focus and you hadn’t thrown the lamp at her yet. Rather, you leaned to the side, away from Armitage to gaze at her with an unnerving _gentility_ ; given the situation she found herself in.

 

“Is this her? Is this Rey?” Armitage placidly hummed his confirmation, glancing between the two of you before grounding his eyes on yours to affirm your approval; despite you looking straight past him to the student in the doorway. Did the tenderness throw her? Of course. Tilting towards the empty side of the bed (Armitage perched on your other side rather than his own), and away from your doting companion, you needed to take her in a little more; and were exceptionally pleased with what you saw.

 

Plain but pretty, wiry but proportioned and the fear she tried to supress endearing; Rey was a find alright. Young enough to be one of your students; she could well have enrolled in your university, it was a large place, after all. You shifted into the middle of the bed to seem more accommodating; the mere action of it prompted uncertain steps forward as she peered through the low light of the bedroom.

 

This was a first, you could see it as plain as day, as if she’d opened those comely lips and told you herself. Not the concept of _two_ people but any at all which was why she’d followed Armitage to the bedroom in the first place.

 

 _“Come closer, darling.”_ You enticed, freeing yourself from the warmth of the covers and shuffling on your knees halfway down the bed; trained on her. _“I don’t bite.”_ Not necessarily true but…. Rey obeyed nonetheless; as if intrigued and tempted.

 

Rey didn’t just _look_ sweet, she _tasted_ sweet. Those swollen lips, plump from being sandwiched in apprehension, responded to yours like it was the most natural thing in the world; her _preference,_ almost. You sensed ease, comfort and, once she’d matched your rhythm, enthusiasm.

 

Mutual hands wandered over clothes; be they a moderately expensive cocktail dress or the finest of silk chemises, they would be on the floor soon. Armitage contentedly watched, knowing he’d paid for both; directly and indirectly.

 

It wasn’t long before the redhead retreated to the armchair that had a _very_ special purpose; to make space for Rey who had clambered keenly onto the bed to join you and maximize closeness. However, caught up in the unforeseen chemistry, Rey had nearly forgotten something critical but when she remembered, she stuttered to a halt and brought the whole flow to a standstill.

 

 _“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”_ Behind half-lowered lids, Rey’s gaze shifted to the armchair where Armitage had sat forward with his arms folded on his thighs; some silent communication that excluded you.

 

_“I…. Umm… I’m….”_

 

“It doesn’t matter.” Armitage cut the stammering explanation callously. “That's why you’re here now.” With Rey curtailed and sitting back with a huff of impatience, his tone was somewhat warmer when he addressed you. “Between her legs, my love.”

 

Sure enough, you found the dangling string; the one you fingered with indulgence then pulled slowly to the soft whinny of an uncertain sugar baby.

 

The crimson-clogged cotton stained the spot on the sheet where it landed; rolling and smearing as it went. Only then did Rey truly feel exposed but you would remedy that for her.

 

The distraction, a resuming of your lung-draining embrace, sufficed as predicted. As if there had been no hesitation and the circumstances weren’t wildly bazaar, Rey dived back in and you welcomed her wholeheartedly.

 

“Now do you see why I waited to bring her?” Armitage chimed ominously from the side-lines, though he received no direct acknowledgement; not when Rey was so enchantingly engaging. “I thought it only fair that you should have the experience too.”

 

Chemise disposed of over the side of the bed and the back of the cocktail dress being blindly attacked, the redhead's presence melted into oblivion. The dress started to fall away until Rey dislodged herself just long enough to shimmy it off and discard it with your forgotten garment; then returning to you with gusto on her knees.

 

Rey didn’t protest the harsh, possessive sucking at her neck; rather, she tilted back her head, closed her eyes and let the blood vessels burst.

_“Ohhh…”_

_“I’ve barely touched you, pet.”_ You admonished fondly, tucking away a single strand of mousy brown hair behind her ear to keep it out of the way. _“I’ll make you sing yet.”_ Whatever way the creamy thigh moved to maintain a quaking balance, the fresh film of ichor caught your eye but you would restrain yourself for now.

 

All it took was a light push before those trembling knees gave way, for the brunette’s back to meet the bed with a bouncing **_thump_** and you were on her like the proverbial rash. This poor creature must never have had her chest explored with a roving tongue; at least the way she crossed her arm behind your shoulders and held you firm suggested as much.

 

Her hips lifted and aimed for yours but fell short, just slightly; begging to be fucked with the feminine touch.

 

 _“She’s such a good girl.”_ You cooed to the responding sigh, barely lifting your mouth from the sallow sack of flesh and the pinpricking notches that sprang up to guide you to the nipple. You had to chance a glance, though, at the fluttering lids and mouth agape; such a beautiful sight.

 

Not wanting Rey to become spent too fast or used up without variety of sensation, you started to amble downwards; adept on your hands, knees and elbows. The student was not starved of contact on your way down, of course; no, you lowered yourself without removing lips from skin. Be it teasing dragging or benign kisses along the way.

 

The smell was strong, the flow was heavy and your mouth _watered_. You’d tasted it off Armitage’s lips before, your own, but this was tantalizingly different. But out of ingrained propriety and perceived hygiene, Rey yelped when you drew even with the source of her monthly plight; as if you would be appalled by the act of nature over which she had no control.

 

 _“Were you told it was dirty?”_ The conflict flickering in those beguiling features told you what you already knew; you’d been told it too. _“Were you told it should be kept a secret? That it should be private?”_ The initial, stretching finger caused a stiffening and a squirm; an automatic and unpreventable reaction. You gave her a few seconds to grow accustomed and settle; she did just that. By the time this encounter was over, the juice of the hymen and the womb would be indistinguishable on your hands.

 

 _“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, little one.”_ Rey keened her enjoyment-laced agreement and loosened her legs; an involuntary thing, dictated by comfort, trust and throwing caution to the wind. _“It’s a beautiful thing, really. Shows you’re a woman now.”_ Rey took you all the way to the knuckle without complaint; fervour, actually and that was a signal. Had you been able to see the tip of that finger (and the one that had just joined it to a fidget of pure ardour), the layer of congealed blood wedged under your fingernail would have positively delighted you. You kept your nails short; not for ventures like this (not entirely, at least) but the prospect of long, manicured nails were impractical and a cosmetic frivolity.

 

 _“Mmmmm…..”_ The second finger was welcomed, so much so that a frail hand took a firm grasp on one ivory breast and refused to let go. Armitage had since risen, gotten up from the chair and kneeled at the very bottom of the bed; enough to have a better view but not enough to be in the way or be a distraction.

 

 _“Doesn’t she have the most delectable little cunt, Armitage?”_ Leaning to the side, you allowed your beloved a clearer angle from behind, unblocked by your naked torso.

 

“Good enough to eat.” He concurred, satisfied with his inspection before returning to the chair again. “And I’m sure you will do just that, my love.”

 

 _“I know Armitage.”_ You whispered, appearing face to face with Rey but ensuring that the speed and dexterity of the first and middle fingers of your right hand went unchanged. _“He might seem gruff but I know he’s sitting over there, thinking about how much he wants to fuck some experience into that tight little body of yours.”_ You ignored the fleeting taken-aback look and continued. _“Not tonight though. You’re mine tonight.”_

_“There’s a good girl, fuck my hand.”_ Was there anything more pleasing than watching a virgin become tainted? Only one thing and that was _being_ the means of said taint. Rey didn’t need to be encouraged. Rather, she lifted her buttocks off the bed and permitted you to do what you pleased with her unexplored body; revelling in new-found delirium all the while.                                                     

 

Your fingers disappeared then retracted then swallowed again; dipped in fresh blood from each visit before the layer was renewed when it was submerged again. Armitage, though he had brought you this most thoughtful gift, was left by the wayside; recording the experience on his phone to be re-lived later.

 

 _“Not what you expected from tonight, is it?”_ You inquired without the expectation of an answer but, in fairness to Rey, she gave you one anyway. Like every other sensation had been put on hold to give priority to pleasure, the medium to give an answer had surprised you. In the meantime, the student’s tidy frame had begun to quake subtly; if a little prematurely but understandably.

 

_“N… No…”_

 

You left Rey with one final peck to the lips then lowered yourself; inch by sweaty, anticipating inch. Torturously slow for the benefit of yourself _and_ Rey, you finally found yourself where you had longed to be; the place that had driven you to salivate from the very start. You took a moment to simply stare, enraptured and captivated by the saturated exterior; blood and Rey’s own, natural lubricant. Said blood that had left a spreading on the sheets beneath her but she was less conscious of it than when she arrived.

 

Eventually, after so long waiting, you allowed yourself a taste. Rey’s breathless gasp in the background went ignored but not unnoticed; nor when she slipped a more confident hand through the strands just above your scalp and held them. The iron-y tang gripped your taste buds, creating a need for _more_ ; no wonder Armitage kept asking about your time of the month.

 

You started small, careful not to overload her; beginning with one, experimental lick to the exposed portion of her clitoris. The resulting squeal was _delicious._ Your fingers had been one cluster of sensory bombardment, your tongue would be another. Rather than a slow and steady progression, you opted to beat Rey’s rapidly approaching orgasm; and the only way to do that, was to **overwhelm** her.

 

Your tongue dived; delving beyond the intricate folds of maiden territory and wiggling its way under the protective hood of the sweet spot to attack it. The cries of sheer (if unprepared) hedonism became free flowing and abundant; an unmistakeable plea of: _“Don’t stop.”_

 

Homing in on the throbbing, pea-sized organ; you didn’t give her much of a chance to adjust. Instead, you siphoned on it with tormenting intensity; suggested by the way she wept, almost despairingly, at the ceiling. There had been no withdrawal of consent or any exhibition of discomfort (yet) but to witness Rey and her reactions, one would assume she was in the deepest depths of agony. This, however, was not the case.  

 

The “virgin” lay on her back, knees bent and open to welcome and accommodate you; well and truly corrupted now, you’d make a whore of her yet. And, you may as well be truthful, you were fond of her. She was trusting and sweet and the twinge of her blood in your senses spiked your animosity. You looked to Armitage, for the first time in quite some time and he stared back; nostrils flared and eyes heavy with desire as he took in the ring of crimson around your mouth. He didn’t speak it but you could read it in his features: even if he didn’t touch Rey that night, he was going to fuck you until you passed out. That look, that silent exchange, was all Armitage needed (not that he had even the slightest shadow of doubt) to cement his true intention that night.

 

You lapped and squelched your way between the feminine layers, suckled fixatingly on the flower bud and resumed your plunging into the freshly-plucked honey pot; to compliment it and bring it all together. Rey (despite the seeming impossibility of it before) grew louder and more desperate in her ecstatic sobs; the little beauty was close, despite the short time but practice would strengthen her.

 

 _“Please….!”_ She managed, strained, and on the verge of coming. _“Please….!”_

“Should I let her come, daring?” Armitage surveyed Rey with a cocked head; she’d turned her begging gaze to him in the hopes of being granted relief but he took his time in granting reprieve, if he was going to be that generous. “She’s going to piss the bed if I don’t.” Not that extra bodily fluids in the sheets would make any sort of difference; heighten the arousal, if anything.

 

“Let her.” He decided to be lenient, even if his stony countenance might have suggested otherwise. “She’s inexperienced, we don’t want to ruin it for her.” As if she had been dutifully biting back release, Rey suddenly crumbled when he gave the word; trundling head first into a blinding peak and only then, did your efforts cease. Collapsing onto the bed and writhing in the hopes of clawing back bodily control, Rey felt hotter than usual, not realizing that every nerve in her body was on fire; a simple side effect of her first real orgasm.

 

You crawled to her side where the whimpers of languishing exhaustion continued, audible and clear. She struggled to cope, physically and mentally but before she knew it, she was gathered into caring arms. Carefully, you stroked the sweat-clung strands from the sopping skin of her brow and watched as she slowly descended from the high that had gripped her entire, shaking body. You held her to your chest, caressing her back and kissing her temple; clutching her like a child would their favourite stuffed animal at bedtime or a mother her new-born. Rey sank into the maternal embrace, snuggling close and accepting every platonic kiss, even chancing closing her eyes as her breathing regulated itself.

 

 _“Are you alright?”_ You asked to a pacified exhale, one with a dreamy edge. _“I hope that was worthwhile.”_ You cradled her a little longer, enjoying her and whatever innocence still lingered. Yes, this one was different, enough to consider keeping her; trusting, beguiling and docile enough to be a pet. _“You could stay here, you know. Stay with us and never have to worry about anything ever again.”_ The kind purr was genuine, all she had to do was stay though Rey seemed to be drifting off; unsurprisingly, given the _activity_. _“You could have your own room or you could sleep here with Armitage and I or both…. I know girls like their privacy….”_

“No, she can’t.” You hadn’t noticed Armitage leave the chair or fetch the scalpel with his demeanour more or less unchanged. His intuitiveness must have been sharper than yours as he had gauged the look of scandal and borderline outrage but he had already planned on placating it. “Rey has a gift for you, darling, she can’t stay.”

 

 _“But…”_ Cue the look of puzzlement, swiped between your lover and the dozing sweetheart snuggled to your chest, under your guarding grasp. _“She **is** the gift…?” _

“No, love.” He replied, ambling towards the bed to cruelly separate you from your pet, enough to wake her. “She **has** a gift for you, she’s not **thee** gift.” Confusion breezed Rey’s features once more, having woken without the security of your arms.

 

_“But I want her.”_

“Well, you can’t have her.” Blunt, like he’d explain it to a child, Armitage dismissed the flare of your nostrils and the furious knitting of your brow. “You wouldn’t want me to get jealous now, would you?” Perhaps that was the metaphorical crowbar that you needed; he was yours and you were his, no one came between. Grudgingly, you relinquished a bewildered Rey into Armitage’s colder custody. “I tell you what, my angel. I’ll be quick about it.”

 

To his credit, he did just that. The dispatch was instant, clean and humane; poor Rey probably didn’t even know what had happened. Both sides of her head were seized, jerked rapidly further than advised and the definite, resounding **_crack_** meant the deed was done; the student had been disposed of like a chicken or some other unfortunate beast. Armitage kept her upright and handled her gently, carefully laying her crumpled, sagging form against the stack of pillows under your irritated scrutiny; perhaps he should have been clearer and he blamed himself for that. In that resolve, he even closed her eyes.

 

“This gift better be good, I liked that one.” You growled, arms folded, with obvious undertones of testiness but he focused on the incision; down the very centre of her torso, from just beneath her breasts to snagging her bellybutton. You observed how his hand rooted and dug through the entrails with something _almost_ akin to respect but that was for your benefit, not Rey’s.

 

“It’s in here…. _Somewhere….”_ He uttered, mostly to himself to break the tension without too much remorse of taking your (perceived) gift; not that remorse was something either of you were too familiar with. He paid particular attention to the stomach and intestines; to where the actual gift should have been after slipping Rey’s dinner and coercing her to swallow it when she found it and voiced her concern. Given the time frame, it could have been either of those two places. Ultimately, he found it.

 

“Do you remember….” He began conversationally, no longer moving his hand but training his devoted gaze on your less-than-impressed one. “When I said that _when_ , not _if_ I pledged my life to you, it would be done in a way that is individual and unique to us?”

 

“Yeeeeeessss?” You did remember, he’d said it more than once.

 

“I’m sorry I had to disembowel your pet but I didn’t think you would be so taken with her.” The barest of apologies didn’t sway your mood, not yet. However, when Armitage dislodged his scarlet-stained hand from the bountifulness of guts and gore, he removed something that should not have been in the innards of a twenty-something year old student.

 

A diamond ring. Silver and gleaming, despite the layer of life-force that partially distorted it.

 

“I wracked my brains and tried to think what would fulfil that promise….” Your face had fallen; riddled with disbelief but Armitage pushed on to distract himself from the alien prick of nerves. “This was the best that I could come up with and I do hope its acceptable but all that aside…” The redhead paused and wetted his lips, directing his eyes to yours; your expression may have changed but you hadn’t uttered a word. “I had resigned myself to loneliness, to be alone for my bloodlust but you…. _You…_ Were a one in a billi- no. I lie.” He became vehement, to successfully convey himself and what went on in the darkest corners of his psyche. He was _determined_ to voice it, almost _frustrated_ by his efforts falling short. “There is no one like you, there never has been, there never will be; my absolute equal in bloodshed, intellect and hedonism. The last year has been….” He exhaled, transfixed and in awe with a bloodied ring still held aloft, hopeful that you would be understanding and kind. “I had it written down but… tonight has sent my brain scattering so forgive me but…. Will you marry me?”

 

There was only one answer to that, wasn’t there?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do review! xxx

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think! Hope you enjoyed it! xxx I used a real menu, this is actually a real restaurant in London! Also for those who aren't British or Irish, Primark (or Penneys in Ireland) is a chain of very cheap clothing shops. 
> 
> Special thank you to Lazarus76, Artisanthemage and Venusss for all their support! Check out their work, they're amazing and mostly Hux x Reader fics too! 
> 
> The reader will be introduced in the second chapter, I just wanted to set this up first! The reader is not Jessika, she's far more sinister. 
> 
> I forgot to mention, I'm also on the Tumblr at HarrisHawkSuperiour. :)
> 
> There's threesomes mentioned in the tags and I think you'll enjoy them when you see them for I'll be embracing some fan favourite ships and some more unusual ones!


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